“To make it difficult for people to get what they wanted?”
“We Russians invented bureaucracy, Captain.” There wasn’t a hint of irony in Chekov’s voice.
Kirk bent to take a closer look at objects that had been heaped in the hollows. He grabbed one at random and inspected it up close. It was soft and colorful and looked like the graffiti creature—a child’s doll?
Chekov’s tricorder chirped. “Sir, Commander Giotto and Ensign Seven Deers are headed this way.”
The captain nodded and continued turning the doll over in his hand, looking at the other similar ones on the floor. Had beings like this taken Yüksel? A few moments later, a noise caught his attention, and his head jerked up toward the other end of the chamber. Giotto and Seven Deers had squeezed themselves through a narrow hole.
“It’s easy to get turned around in this place,” said the engineer. She was staring at her tricorder, bewildered.
Giotto was holding a bright red cylinder. “Sir. It’s some kind of scroll.” He pressed a button on the end, and a screen popped out. “It’s got text, but even with the universal translator, it doesn’t make any sense.”
“Give it to Mister Chekov. I want scans sent to Saloniemi.”
Giotto handed the scroll to Chekov, not saying a word. Kirk knew that Giotto was taking his frustration at Yüksel’s disappearance out on the ensign. It had been over four hours since they’d received the interrupted message. It had been the scientist’s first time on an initial survey, and he’d been so excited. Kirk dreaded what would happen if they didn’t find him. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Yüksel. I regret to inform you that your son Fatih was lost on a planetary survey mission in the Høyland 5900 sector…
“Any sign of him, Commander?” asked Kirk.
Giotto shook his head. “I don’t think anyone’s been in here for a long time.”
Damn. With a dozen of those doors set off the basement of the tree chamber, they’d be searching a long time. The botanist could be behind any one of them, never to be found.
“Let’s head out and rejoin the others.”
They were going to find him.
She would not close her eyes even for a moment. The temptation was great, but she wouldn’t give in—didn’t dare to. Christine Chapel knew her body—she would try to stay awake, regardless of how tired she felt. People depended on her, patients as well as colleagues.
The situation in sickbay was beginning to come under control. The number of people coming in for treatment had trickled down to one during the past fifteen minutes. That injury had been minor: a broken nose, whose owner had had the misfortune of walking into a door that failed to open. It was easily dealt with, and a once again cheerful Lieutenant Riley walked out of sickbay, his nose showing no evidence of any recent mishap.
Despite the medical staff’s work, sickbay was still full of people who required intensive care. Crew quarters on the same deck were being changed into post-surgery recovery units, or PSRUs. Messier and Brent were out there, arranging the transformation. According to their latest status report, they were about to finish the last two rooms. The entire undertaking had taken only a short time. The medical drills Doctor McCoy occasionally ran were well worth the hassle.
Chapel turned her attention to checking on the skin patch that covered most of Crewman Polk’s right arm. Focusing on the task demanded her full attention. Her thoughts were a total mess, trying to draw her away from her work. It was an indication of how tired she was. However, she’d kept up her resolve not to use a stimulant. That was her final option; if the situation deteriorated enough that she couldn’t function without a hypo, she would have to think about the patients first, and herself second.
Chapel found herself thinking about her past—the people and things she had left behind for a career in space, her teenage ballerina phase that was over after the third lesson, the months of blue-eyed hope after her fiancé’s disappearance and the profound change that followed. It was all so long ago, but—
“Christine!”
She turned to see Cheryl Thomas approaching her. The younger woman had done sterling work today, unfazed by the confusion. “Yes, Cheryl?”
“How’re you holding up? You look like you’re going to fall asleep any moment now,” the nurse asked, her bun losing its ornate curl—evidence of long, demanding hours.
“I’m fine,” Chapel said. “And you’re exaggerating.”
“Look, you’ve done all you can to help these people; the least you can do now is look after yourself.”
“I’ll rest when there are no more patients that need to be treated.”
“Uh, right. So you want to stay up indefinitely, is that it?”
“No, of course not. I—”
“Nurse!” Doctor McCoy’s voice rang out across the ward. Chapel turned her head, glad for the interruption.
Yes, you’re glad because you know you’d lose the argument. How very responsible of you.
Chapel was angry at herself, because her inner voice was right. “Yes, Doctor?” she said to shut it up.
“Could you do me a favor and finish sealing this man’s lacerated eye?” He motioned at the supine figure on the bed next to him. It was Chief Yocum, the Saurian that had been in the recreation room with him during the most recent… shockwave, or whatever the cause of all this was.
It was simple work, perfect for her current state. She didn’t dare show McCoy how tired she really was.
“Christine,” he said softly. “Don’t make me tell you again.”
“Doctor?”
“Get some rest. We’re just about done here, anyway. A few hours of sleep’ll do you a world of good.”
He knew her too well.
The sound of the main sickbay doors swishing open saved her from having to reply. A group of security guards, led by Lieutenant Leslie, trooped in, bearing three redshirted people on stretchers. They swiftly moved them onto empty beds.
“What’s up?” McCoy asked, his short-sleeved arms crossed over his chest.
Leslie sighed, weariness evident in his face. The situation was taking a toll on everybody, in every department. Over the past few hours, security had been instrumental in getting those people to sickbay who couldn’t get there on their own. “Unknown,” Leslie said. “All three were off shift when the distortion hit, and should have reported to damage control. When they didn’t, Lieutenant DeSalle sent Galloway to see what had happened.”
David Galloway was the tall, strong-looking security officer standing next to Leslie. “I thought they were sleeping,” he said. “But it’s obvious they’re not.”
Their monitor readings corresponded exactly to those of Bouchard and Petriello. Doctor McCoy said somberly, “They’re in comas.”
“Sir?” asked Galloway, his forehead wrinkled in confusion and obvious worry. “The inertial dampers were fine on their deck. They didn’t even fall out of their bunks.”
Leslie shook his head. “We’ve already had two coma cases today. The doctor can’t figure out the cause there, either.”
“Not yet, Lieutenant,” the doctor said pointedly.
Nurse Chapel leaned over slightly to glance at the nearest unconscious figure.
“Okay, people,” Doctor McCoy said. “Y’all know what to do. We have three more cases of sudden-onset coma without apparent cause and rapid deterioration of brain functions. I need a steady supply of dalaphaline and three neural stimulators. What’re you waiting for?”
Chapel started toward the drug cabinet, her fatigue now a thing of the past. It was just as well; there’d be no chance for any of them to rest for a few hours.
Gaining access to the tower was simple once Tra had explained the procedure. The strange, semicircular door lifted, and the Hofstadter’s landing party went in. They were straining their necks to take in the interior.
It was breathtaking and unsettling at the same time. Scotty had expected a large space inside, like a hall of sorts. Instead, he was looking at something his mind was busy see
king comparisons for.
There were similarities to what he thought an anthill must look like inside, with tunnels and caverns. Or perhaps, if you happened to find yourself in a large block of Swiss cheese. The door had opened into a reasonably spacious cavern. A number of tunnels led into darkness. The only light they had available came from the open door and their flashlights.
After a quick security sweep by Mariella Kologwe, Spock gave them the go-ahead to search for a route to the energy source, which was near the apex of the building. Unfortunately, the structure was a labyrinth—there was no direct route. Spock, wanting to avoid further disappearances, split the landing party.
Scott and Doctor M’Benga set off to their assigned tunnel. Heads bent, they squeezed into a dark shaft leading gently upward from the entrance chamber. It was low, but wide enough to let them move side by side.
Their flashlights illuminated the passage ahead. Its sides were warped and twisted, creating nooks that could hide anything. Scotty kept glancing at his tricorder to check his surroundings. M’Benga, reticent by nature, kept pace quietly beside him. Scotty listened, hearing at first only their footsteps, but then… a whispering?
It was like someone talking very quietly, out of earshot. Scotty couldn’t pick out individual words—not even alien ones—but he knew language when he heard it.
“Do you hear that?” Scotty stopped and turned to face M’Benga.
The doctor’s face was more confused than fearful. “Hear what?”
Scotty grabbed his arm. “Dinna move,” he said, whispering. “You have to be very quiet.” M’Benga nodded and stopped where he was, waving his flashlight back and forth.
Nothing. Had his worried mind enhanced some small sound? A piece of ancient machinery stirring to life? Or had he imagined it entirely?
Or had the whisperers just fallen silent, hearing their approach?
“Let’s go,” Scott said at last. The silence was more unnerving than the whispering. “Are you picking up anything?”
M’Benga tapped some controls on his tricorder. “Nothing.”
“Aye,” said Scotty, “but I bet that’s what Yüksel thought too.”
After a few more minutes, during which the whispering never resumed, M’Benga suddenly stopped and moved his flashlight around. They’d left the shaft behind and now stood in a chamber. Scotty added his light to M’Benga’s to get an idea of where they were.
The chamber was roughly circular, and it was impossible to say where the floor ended and the walls began, because everything here was sloped and merged into something else. Even the furniture—at least, Scotty assumed it was furniture—was a part of the floor. Unlike the entrance chamber, this one was packed with items of different sizes and shapes. Scotty couldn’t even begin to guess what they’d been used for.
“Are any of these the source of the energy reading?” asked M’Benga.
Scotty checked his tricorder readings. “No,” he said. “It’s farther up. We have to find that energy reading—this can wait.”
They stepped into another tunnel, which rapidly changed from a gentle slope to a tight spiral. Scotty led the way, noticing that the intensity of the reading was growing. “We’re getting close!” he called behind him.
Scotty’s ears strained to hear a reply, but what he heard was more whispering, louder and clearer than before.
“I’m coming!” The doctor’s shout obliterated the whispers.
But they had definitely been real. They were too distinct to be the products of an overactive imagination. The engineer paused his clambering to get out his communicator. “Scott to Spock.”
“Spock here.”“
Commander, we’re getting close. And I keep hearing something—whispering or the like.”
“I have locked onto your current position, Mister Scott. We will join you shortly. Spock out.”
Scotty resumed climbing. They could be only a couple more minutes away at most.
“What are you doing?” asked M’Benga. “We should wait.”
“I want to see what’s up there,” replied Scott. The first working technology on a new planet! Maintaining his engines was Scotty’s passion, but getting to examine an ingenious contraption created by another culture was a close second.
“Mister Scott, I can hear it now. The whispering.”
Scotty listened for a moment. The sounds were more distinct, but they didn’t resemble words. The engineer had heard enough alien languages not to let that fool him. “Keep your phaser ready.” Difficult while climbing. He wasn’t getting nabbed by whatever was up there.
Scotty moved quickly up the last several meters of the spiral. He emerged into a large spherical chamber whose walls were covered screens displaying alien glyphs. A compact bronze-colored gizmo, roughly spherical, stood in the center of the room.
The whispering was everywhere.
Scotty cast around for its source. And there it was—a hole in the metal paneling, near floor level. He drew closer and saw that the noise was coming from damaged wiring inside the hole, which sparked and flashed. That was the source of the sound, not a group of aliens.
Scotty had holstered his phaser and was scanning the alien apparatus by the time M’Benga caught up. “What is it?” the doctor asked.
“Power generator,” Scotty replied. “Not a fusion one, like on the satellite, but a matter/antimatter reactor.”
“A warp engine?” asked M’Benga.
“Aye, but a very small one,” said Scotty. This was the first indication that the inhabitants of Mu Arigulon were a warp society.
“What’s it for?” asked M’Benga.
“That question,” Spock said from the chamber’s entrance, “has a surprising answer.”
Scotty turned to see Kologwe and Jaeger follow Spock into the chamber. “Sir?”
Spock ran his own tricorder over the generator. “Our explorations initially took us downward, where we discovered a massive underground power conduit. This structure is designed to generate power, but all of it is carried somewhere else, seemingly far away.”
“Where?” asked M’Benga.
“That is what I am attempting to ascertain, Doctor,” Spock said. “I see little need for the entire landing party to stand here while Mister Scott and I do technical work. Please join Lieutenants Kologwe and Jaeger in exploring the tower.”
M’Benga nodded and left with the other officers, while Spock resumed scrutinizing the generator.
“Annoyed, Mister Spock?” Scotty asked.
Spock glanced up from his work, but only for a moment. “That would be an emotional reaction, Mister Scott. I merely desired a less cluttered working environment.”
Scott smiled to himself—he knew annoyance when he saw it. He held up his tricorder, letting it take in the images on the wall. The universal translator could tell they related to energy levels and power distribution. But it still couldn’t parse the information; it needed more for a baseline.
The engineer dropped to the floor to examine the pedestal that the warp generator sat on, and quickly located a recessed panel. He tried to pry it open, but it wouldn’t budge. “Mister Spock, can you lend me a hand?”
In a matter of seconds, Spock had the panel open. It clattered onto the floor. Inside, Scotty could see a power conduit descending into the depths of the tower.
“Here, Mister Scott.” Scotty turned to see Spock examining the panel. The back had a diagram of a dilithium crystal, and labels on various lines going in and out of the image. He held the tricorder up to the diagram, and it began to beep as it recognized what some of the labels represented—physical measurements like the crystal’s stress level, goniochronicity factor, fourth-dimensional permeation, and so on. The tricorder matched those measurements with the crystal inside the pedestal, then combined them with the text in the graffiti and the information from the other displays, and soon the rest of the data cascaded into place and the tricorder had enough of a baseline to translate any text in the room.
“S
ending the UT program to your tricorder, Mister Spock. Have you seen a master display anywhere?”
“Over here.” Spock directed him to a screen displaying the planet, with several lights set into it. One of them was blue, the rest red. Gray lines connected the red lines to the blue one. The blue light was lit, as were most of the red ones.
Spock ran his tricorder over the image. “Our current position corresponds to this red light,” he said, pointing. “It is labeled ‘generator nine.’”
“The red lights are power generators.” Scotty’s finger traced the line between their red light and the blue one. “What would need an output of almost a dozen warp engines to power it?” asked Scotty. “And why scatter them all over?”
Spock consulted his tricorder again. “It is labeled ‘main projector.’”
“What does that mean?”
“Mister Scott, we must find out.”
Scotty nodded in agreement. “Aye.”
Having retreated to his office, McCoy stared at the medical readouts of the three comatose security guards who had just come in: Salah, Fraser, and Santos. They were all espers—less powerful than Bouchard and Petriello, with ratings in the low 080s and high 070s, but that was still above the human norm. Out of curiosity, McCoy had looked up his own esper rating for comparison, and had found it to be 046, about as average as you could get.
Spurred on by a sudden insight, McCoy then pulled the esper ratings of the rest of the crew. The computer displayed the results as a list, in descending order of esper rating.
Some doctor you are. The first thing you should have done was figure out who could be susceptible to this!
Cron Emalra’ehn, a Deltan in security, was a full-blown empath, but he was off on the shuttles surveying Mu Arigulon. The next highest rating after the five victims was in the 060s, but that was well below the threshold of what was considered esper.
Six espers in a population of four hundred was an unusually large percentage. Three years ago, before McCoy’s time, all of the Enterprise’s espers had been killed on a mission. The doctor was determined not to lose these espers.
Star Trek®: A Choice of Catastrophes Page 8