by Star Trek
“I wonder if anybody’s home, and how they’ll feel about our stopping by?” B’Elanna mused aloud.
“We’re about to find out,” Janeway sighed, resigned. “Because Tuvok’s headed right for it.”
Chapter 2
Lieutenant Tom Paris, Voyager’s senior conn officer, had been ordered by Commander Chakotay to get some rest. He’d pulled more than his fair share of extra duty shifts since they had arrived in Monorhan space, and under normal circumstances would have been grateful for the brief respite. He knew that, even at impulse, Voyager would overtake Tuvok’s shuttle in a few hours, and he would certainly be called to the bridge when their mission became, as his gut told him it would, more than a simple shuttle recovery. But right now only B’Elanna’s firm warm presence nestled against him and her soft rhythmic snores could have guaranteed him a decent chance at sleep. Since B’Elanna was already on duty, he tossed and turned, grateful that at least her musky scent remained on the pillow beside him, arousing pleasant memories of the last night they had shared when she returned from Monorha and was given a clean bill of health by the Doctor. Finally he accepted that any pursuit of rest was probably a lost cause.
“That’s it…” he resolved, allowing the mischievous demons that had ruled so much of his life to once again wrestle his better angels into submission, “…there will be plenty of time to sleep when I’m dead.”
Rising from his bed, he considered dressing and heading down to the mess hall to see what frightening dish Neelix had managed to concoct from hydroponic vegetables and his favorite staple, leola roots. But his stomach rebelled at the thought. He had been saving replicator rations for days, planning to surprise B’Elanna the next chance he had with breakfast in bed: banana pancakes for two, a dish she had told him was one of her childhood favorites, but which she had been strangely reluctant to order for herself lately. Doing a little quick math in his head, he rationalized that if he was willing to forgo breakfast for himself for the next few days, he could still surprise B’Elanna and manage to indulge himself a little right now.
Standing over the replicator, he opted for one of his guiltiest pleasures, “Two slices of pepperoni pizza…cold.” Moments later, seated comfortably in an armchair and savoring every single bite, he searched through his personal padds until he found the one that had most recently captured his imagination.
The padd in question contained everything in the ship’s database concerning a series of stories created on Earth in the twentieth century. They were known as “serials,” and were usually long and involved action-adventure pieces that chronicled in brief installments the exploits of larger-than-life heroes, their faithful sidekicks, and maniacal madmen bent on destroying the world. Each segment, or “chapter,” invariably ended with the hero and his friends trapped in circumstances that could result only in certain death. But week after week, the heroes managed to survive, rescue the beautiful girl, and foil the evil villain.
Tom had spent most of what little free time he’d had of late searching for the perfect serial to adapt into his next holodeck program. He had already received assurances from Harry that he would grudgingly participate, and if he could drag B’Elanna away from the Klingon martial-arts programs that she had recently begun to fill her free time with, he was certain his efforts would be rewarded with hours of fun for all three of them.
But which one, he wondered to himself, until his gaze fell upon one file on the list he hadn’t had time to open yet. Smiling to himself, he read aloud, “Captain Proton, Space Man First Class, Protector of Earth, and Scourge of Intergalactic Evil.”
His amusement turned to full-blown glee as he began the first installment of the series, Captain Proton and Chaotica’s Ray of Doom. Captain Proton was, of course, the hero, his best friend a reporter called Buster Kincaid. But his joy was not complete until he had seen the description of Proton’s secretary, the voluptuous Constance Goodheart, who often found herself embroiled in the direst of circumstances while wearing little more than a cocktail dress.
“It’s perfect,” he said, rising to change into his uniform. The moment he reached his combadge he activated it: “Paris to Kim.”
He hardly noticed as he was dressing that he got no response.
The sensors aboard Tuvok’s shuttle were nowhere near as sophisticated as those aboard Voyager, but all he needed was his bare eyes to know that the object he was approaching as quickly as full impulse would allow was both extraordinary and unique. The massive ring that spun slowly around the singularity he had used to set his course was so much larger than any space station ever constructed by the Federation. Even at this distance, the sensors were also reading densely woven layers of energy fields that, he could only assume, kept the station from being crushed by the gravity of the singularity. The computer could not make any substantive analysis of the molecular structure of the metals or alloys of which the station was composed. Life-form readings were unintelligible.
Nonetheless, Tuvok was absolutely certain that whomever or whatever he had been in contact with was aboard the station. When he allowed the music to break the surface of his conscious mind, he could hear a distinctive change in texture and complexity. It was as if a string quartet had suddenly been overrun by a full symphony orchestra. The delicate harmony lilting above the urgent bass, which continued to pound with the force of its constant voracious need, had become scattered, dissonant…as if the various musicians could no longer agree upon a piece to play and instead opted to throw out their sheet music altogether in favor of individual variations. For the first time since this journey had begun, Tuvok found himself wondering whether he might be facing one telepathic entity, or hundreds.
Forcing aside the intensity that commanded him to abandon all restraint, he slowed the shuttle’s impulse engines to stationkeeping and began to calculate the safest approach to the station.
“Computer,” he ordered, “begin transmitting friendship messages on all subspace bands.”
The computer complied with a chirp as Tuvok turned his attention to the navigational controls and began to plot his course.
He was briefly startled—
beat, beat, beat
—when the computer announced, “Incoming transmission, audio only.”
He took a moment to focus again on his breathing in order to slow his suddenly unruly heart rate, waiting until he was once again in absolute control of his faculties before he ordered, “Computer, play transmission.”
A sharp burst of static echoed through the shuttle, though Tuvok noted with satisfaction that his heart rate remained steady as he lowered the volume a few decibels. Tuvok could faintly make out some semblance of a voice through the shrieking of electromagnetic interference, and he set about methodically weeding out the unnecessary signals that were garbling the message.
A few minutes later, he had three words, only one of which had any meaning to him. “Assylia…Monorhan…Betasis .” As he put the message on continuous low playback, hoping that the computer might find another word or two, he considered the possibility that he was picking up the transmission from another vessel in the area. Although he was well outside the range that Monorhan ships were thought to have traveled, it was not inconceivable that one of their ill-fated transport vessels had wandered into the region and found itself trapped, or unable to return home. But after he compensated for the gravimetric interference of the singularity, a quick sensor sweep told him that his was the only ship in the immediate vicinity.
Returning his attention to the conn, he entered a new heading, one that would take the shuttle slowly toward the station on a line that followed the curve of the singularity’s gravimetric displacement. He believed that this course would allow him to come close enough to the station to find a point of ingress while using the station’s own magnetic stabilization field to keep him from falling into the event horizon of the singularity.
The shuttle began to buck and rattle as he neared the station. Inertial dampers held him relatively
steady, though the power drain required to maintain course was unacceptably high. As he methodically began powering down unnecessary systems to compensate, he saw that what had appeared from a distance to be one large ring was actually two rings that turned at the same rate in opposite directions, one on top of the other. An invisible magnetic field held the rings in their orbit, their motion obviously part of the stabilization design. Extending from the rings at regular intervals toward the singularity were dozens of long metal struts. Though he couldn’t be certain, it seemed logical that these spokes of the wheels might channel the stabilization field to and from the rings, maintaining its motion and delicate balance.
Power reserves were holding steady, and his course seemed to be leading him toward a series of what could be docking bays, when the shuttle’s alarm klaxon began to wail.
Despite his rigorous efforts, Tuvok had misjudged his course. Sensors indicated that he had stumbled upon the edge of the singularity’s event horizon, but that seemed impossible. Every calculation dictated that the event horizon should exist within the magnetic fields that bordered the interior of the station’s rings. Otherwise the rings should logically have been crushed by the gravity of the singularity. As he was still several hundred kilometers from the outer edge of the rings, he should have been at a safe distance. Nonetheless, the abrupt change in the gravitational pull on the shuttle told Tuvok in no uncertain terms that within moments, he would pass through the singularity’s outermost fringe, exposing himself to the mercy of its inexorable pull.
His first instinct was to increase the shuttle’s impulse engines to maximum and alter course in a straight line away from the station. It was a tug-of-war he was almost certain to lose, but the only logical option in the moment.
“Warning, shields at fifty percent,” the computer called. A second later, “Warning, shields at thirty percent.”
The engines protested loudly as every ounce of power at the shuttle’s disposal was engaged in tearing it free of the singularity’s intense pull.
Moments later, his shields were gone. Tuvok tried to route all remaining power to structural integrity, even as consoles began exploding all around him.
In the midst of the chaos, the barrier Tuvok had erected between his mind and the music shattered like glass. For the first time, the feelings were more overwhelming than the sounds. The aching need Tuvok had associated with a single powerful being came rushing forth in a wave of intensity that made him feel as if he had just entered into a mind-meld with a thousand people at the same time.
A few seconds more…and he would lose control of more than his shuttle.
The last thing Tuvok heard distinctly through the chaos of sound and light that now enveloped him was the final word of the transmission that the computer had managed to translate before it automatically rerouted all power to inertial dampers, structural integrity, and life-support.
“Gremadia.”
“Computer,” he choked.
There was no response. The main console erupted in a brilliant flash of light, and Tuvok released himself to the blackness and knew no more.
It wasn’t that Harry hadn’t heard Tom calling over the comm system. Voyager’s ops officer was a notoriously light sleeper who had endured no end of ribbing for his nightly use of an eye mask to ensure the darkest darkness possible when he slept. He had, in fact, started awake at the sound of his name. He just hadn’t been particularly inclined to answer. He knew Tom. Whatever he wanted could certainly wait until they were on duty, and if it couldn’t, surely the next voice he’d hear would be Chakotay’s or the captain’s.
“Paris to Kim.”
Harry loved Tom like the older brother he’d never had, but sometimes the guy just couldn’t take a hint.
Confirmation of that thought arrived a few seconds later when a loud pounding on his door began to reverberate through his cabin.
“Come on, Harry, I know you’re in there!” Tom called.
Harry managed to muffle the curses that escaped his lips when his shin impacted something quite heavy, possibly a chair or table leg, en route to answer his door.
“Is the ship in danger?” Harry asked groggily when the doors slid open, a slight spark of indignation lighting in his stomach as Tom’s eyes managed to silently mock the pajamas he was wearing, navy flannel plaid that had been a gift from his mother, and, of course, the eye mask hanging around his neck.
“Of course not,” Tom answered cheerily. “Although we are at yellow alert, and that’s never a great sign.”
Harry perked up momentarily at this. “Have senior officers been ordered to the bridge?”
“No. Not yet. And unless I’m mistaken, we won’t be for at least another three hours, or until our next duty shift begins, whichever comes first.”
“Then, go away,” Harry replied, turning back toward his room in an attempt to preempt any further discussion.
Tom managed to slide into the darkened room before the doors slid shut behind him and immediately called, “Computer, increase illumination.”
As the computer responded and the lights in the cabin rose to standard work settings, he continued, “You know it’s not a good idea to walk around in the dark, Harry. You might break something.”
Harry was already back in bed. And just in case Tom intended to be exceptionally obtuse, he had reset his eye mask and placed two pillows firmly over his head.
Perching himself on the edge of Harry’s bed, Tom checked the computer’s chronometer before saying, “Come on, Harry, you’ve been off duty for six hours already.”
Through the muffling of the pillows Tom probably barely made out Harry’s “And I have two more to go, so get out!”
But Tom was never this easily deterred.
“Harry, do you remember that time you were trapped in a parallel universe or alternate time line or, whatever, back on Earth and only an incredible act of self-sacrifice, that resulted in my death I might add, allowed you to return to your proper…”
“That wasn’t even you!” Harry screamed into his pillows.
“Yes, but it was a version of me, and the way I see it, I pretty much saved your life, so…”
Unwilling to give in to the inevitable, but still determined to make his point, Harry sat up, scattering the pillows, and removed his mask.
“You know, I didn’t even have to tell you that story. You would never have known…” he began.
“But isn’t it great to think that that’s the kind of friendship we have? I’ll bet that in almost every conceivable time line out there, we’ve always got each other’s backs,” Tom continued.
Harry had successfully deluded himself for almost two minutes that he would be able to sneak in another hour of sleep, but the twinkle in Tom’s eye made it perfectly clear that whatever scheme Paris had in mind, Harry was already an integral part of it.
“This is one of those ‘resistance is futile’ moments, isn’t it?” Harry asked.
“I’m afraid it is,” Tom replied.
“Where are we going?”
“To build a rocket ship and save the galaxy!”
Harry smiled in spite of himself.
“Could be fun.”
The first intruder isolated the dissonant electromagnetic discharges it encountered on contact with the energy barrier that had been erected around the Key and dispersed them into harmless static. The atomic particles suspended in the atmosphere of the cabin snapped with a sudden charge before the static began to dissipate. Although this process was temporarily unbalancing and therefore…painful…the intruder did not concern itself with the unpleasantness of the experience. Instead, it threw the entirety of its being against the energy barrier and endured until it recognized the futility of this approach.
A part of it retained an ethereal imprint of sensations that the organic beings who inhabited this dimension referred to as “feelings.” It had briefly inhabited this space-time reality in an alternative form once before. It knew all too well that the longer it spent
here, the more vulnerable it would become to mistaking those sensations for “feelings” of its own.
It identified the “feeling” washing over it at the moment as rage. Soon, the angry tumultuous energy spasms that resulted in these “feelings” would overwhelm it, and decrease its ability to counteract the forcefield.
As it re-formed itself into a sharp directed-energy beam that might puncture the barrier, the hostile and disturbing misplaced energy “feelings” were heightened dramatically when yet another series of vibrations were detected in the mix.
It could not remember why these vibrations were so unsettling. Countless moments had passed since it had last encountered them. Turning its attention to the source of the vibrations, it sensed that the one who had erected the forcefield was still present. It had taken a form that mimicked the other types of sentient life that had erupted in this dimension. A lesser being.
The form was a little less than two meters high. A soft, flowing, brightly patterned fabric composed of a combination of organic and synthetic polymers covered its four appendages, two that rooted it to the floor for balance and two that extended from its upper torso for the purpose of crudely manipulating solid matter. A round formation with several vulnerable openings sat atop the torso, and it was from one of these openings that the disturbing vibrations were emanating.
Finally, it found the distant memory it was seeking.
She is laughing at me.
“I know why you’ve come,” the being that was so like itself and yet so different said. “You may as well go back, because you won’t succeed.”
Every moment brought fresh reorienting memories to the surface of its awareness. Human. She has taken human form. Though it could easily manipulate the matter of the fragile humanoid brain that regulated the functioning of its body’s systems, it knew that such tactics would have no effect on the other, despite appearances.