At which point … nothing happened.
No sizzling energy beams, no hurtling plasma packets, no fiery tachyon torpedoes. Nothing.
“Sweet, deities,” murmured Felai. “The android was right. Their weapons don’t work. They were bluffing the whole time.”
Sinna turned to Data and smiled. She didn’t have to say anything. Her expression alone told the android how happy she was that she had supported him. And also, how relieved.
The alien commander, too, was eyeing Data with new respect. “It seems,” he said, “you have discovered our helplessness—as much as we tried to conceal it. All I ask is that you terminate us quickly.”
The android shook his head. “We have no intention of destroying you,” he explained. “Our crew is no bigger or more experienced than your own—and our vessel, like yours, is defective in several key operating areas. In short, we are in the same predicament you are.”
Data’s counterpart looked at him suspiciously. “You are helpless as well?" he asked.
The android nodded. “It seems logical that whatever happened to your ship happened to ours, and vice versa.”
The alien commander looked perplexed. “But if you didn’t set up the field that removed our senior officers … who did?”
Data cocked his head slightly. “I confess to having no knowledge of any field,” he commented. “Could you provide us with the relevant data?”
The alien shrugged. “Under the circumstances, I don’t see why not.”
A moment later the commander’s image was replaced by an array of computer graphics. Of course, the symbols on the screen were slightly different from those used by the Federation, but there were enough similarities to permit interpretation.
“Fascinating,” muttered the android. “This is the sensor log maintained by the Opsarra’s shipboard computer—”
“Opsarra?” repeated Sinna.
Glancing at her, he nodded. “That is what they call themselves. At any rate, this log shows the events that occurred just prior to the disappearance of the Opsarra’s senior officers. Apparently, their instruments are more sensitive than ours, because…” He pointed to a spot near the left-hand margin of the screen, about halfway down. “At this point they detected a rather large energy field.”
“Large enough for a ship to pass through?” inquired Sinna, though she already seemed to know the answer.
“Indeed,” Data responded, “large enough for several ships to pass through, if they are the size of the Yosemite. In fact, I believe that is what happened. Both our vessel and the Opsarra’s entered the field at roughly the same time, and experienced roughly the same conditions.”
Lagon grunted. “Are you saying that this … this field … is what caused the disappearance of the crew? And disabled the ship’s systems?”
“That would seem to be the logical conclusion,” the android told him, continuing to scrutinize the symbols on the viewscreen. “What is more, there is evidence that the field may have interacted with the Yosemite’s intraship communications network … possibly, in an attempt to locate the Yosemite’s crew via their communicators.”
Sinna looked at him. “Then what you said earlier … about our lack of communicators having saved us from disappearing with the rest of the crew…”
The android nodded. “This does seem to support that observation. However, it also leads us to a couple of much larger questions. First, who made the field? And second, for what purpose was it made?”
“You’re forgetting the biggest question of all,” Sinna reminded him. “And that’s how we can convince the field makers to give our people back.” She turned to the alien graphics on the viewscreen. “All of them.”
“You’re assuming they’re still alive,” commented Lagon.
Data turned to the Yanna. “Though I lack instincts in such matters, Lagon, I believe that our comrades have been allowed to survive. After all, there are simpler ways to destroy unwanted intruders, if destruction were the only requirement. It seems to me that the energy field is a humane defense—an advanced sort of transporter mechanism devised by a race that values its isolation.”
“In that case,” asked Felai, “why wouldn’t the entire ship have been transported?”
The android shook his head. “It may be that the field creators’ technology is simply not capable of so large a task.”
Odril leaned forward. “For the time being, let’s say you’re right. Do you have a plan in mind?”
“I confess that I do not,” Data answered. “However, it seems clear that we must get the attention of the field creators—and alert them to the fact that neither we nor the Opsarra mean them any harm.”
Lagon snorted. “How are we supposed to get the attention of a race we know nothing about?”
“We always have the phaser banks,” said Sinna. “If they’re in working order, they ought to at least put a dent in the energy barrier.”
“Wait a minute!” exclaimed Felai. As the others turned to him, he swallowed … hard. “What if this advanced race of yours is simply collecting samples of different life forms? Are we sure we want to get their attention?”
Data pondered the question. “If they were the sort of collectors you describe,” he concluded, “they would probably be actively engaged in the activity—rather than waiting for specimens to come to them.”
Odril nodded slowly. “That makes sense. In fact,” he decided, “everything you’ve said makes sense.” He turned to his fellow Yann. “I think we ought to try it—the phaser plan, I mean.”
Lagon took in a breath and let it out. “We must do something—and it’s the most promising option we have.”
Felai nodded, albeit reluctantly.
Sinna turned to Data. “Then we are unanimous on this point. We will activate the phasers and try to create a stir in the energy field—no matter the outcome.”
The android looked at her. Again, he found himself grateful for her assistance. “Very well,” he responded. “But first, we must speak again with the Opsarra, and let them know of our intentions.”
CHAPTER
9
Fortunately, the Opsarra agreed with Data’s assessment of the situation. In fact, they complimented him on his inventiveness.
However, as the android stood on the bridge and worked at the tactical console, he had his doubts. The questions that the Yann had raised were valid ones. Attracting the field creators’ attention might only encourage them to finish the job they had started.
Of course, there was only one way to find out. Turning to Sinna, who was handling the controls at the bridge engineering station, Data nodded.
That was the signal for her to take the energy-field information being transmitted by the Opsarra and place it on the viewscreen. A moment later the screen filled with bright green graphics.
Since their own sensors couldn’t detect the field, this was the only way they had of knowing what kind of damage they were doing. It would be up to Sinna to maintain the communications link, so the information flow could continue.
The other Yann just stood and watched. Their expressions were all the same: a mixture of fear and fascination. The android hoped that when this was all over, only their fascination would be justified.
The next step was to aim the Yosemite’s phasers at the proper point in the field. To make sure that they had the maximum effect, Data identified what appeared to be a weak point—one of several, surprisingly. Then, with his target defined, he pressed the firing button.
For a unit of time almost too small to comprehend, the android considered the possibility that their earlier work in the weapons room had not been effective after all, and that the phasers would not work. Then his concerns were laid to rest … as the graphics on the viewscreen reflected a full and direct phaser hit.
However, they hadn’t made much of a dent; the field was still intact. As Data watched, it began to mend itself—correcting even the little bit of damage that had been done.
“What�
��s happening?” wondered Felai.
“What’s wrong?” asked Odril.
“We require more firepower,” the android thought out loud.
Focusing on the tactical board, he overrode the Yosemite’s security programs and diverted the energy he needed from other systems.
First, he sapped the strength of the deflector shields—knowing full weH how vulnerable it left them. Second, he shut down life support in every deck but the one they currently occupied.
At last, with virtually all the ship’s resources at the beck and call of the phaser batteries, Data tried his strategy a second time. Pressing the firing button, he scanned the viewscreen.
This time the impact was more significant—but it still wasn’t enough to punch through the field. The android followed the flow of the alien graphics, noting how the mending process was carried out. He saw that where there were even a few, slender threads of energy in a given spot, they drew in other threads to effect repairs.
“It’s not working,” prodded Lagon. “Why isn’t it working?”
“We haven’t got enough power,” Sinna told him. “But we’ll address that.” She stole a glance at Data. “Won’t we?”
The android nodded. “Yes,” he said. “We will.”
To penetrate the energy barrier, to attract the attention of its creators, he would be forced to … what was the expression Captain Thorsson favored? Put all his eggs in one basket. In other words, he would have to pour all available power into a single blast—and trust that he would not need a second one. Because if he did, there would be no power left to create it.
For the last time Data targeted the weak spot in the energy field. Locking phasers, he called for the narrowest, most intense beam the batteries could muster up. Then he tired.
The viewscreen showed him the result. As he watched, the blast met the alien grid—and tore a hole right through it. It was not a particularly large hole, but it was big enough to keep the energy field from making itself whole again.
“We did it!” cheered Lagon, bursting with relief. “We ripped a gap in it big enough to fit a ship through.”
That wasn’t exactly an accurate assessment, Data mused. However, they had indeed accomplished their goal. They had damaged the barrier to the point where its creators couldn’t help but take notice—if they were still in existence.
Still, as seconds stretched into minutes, there was no response. Data could see ,the Yann showing signs of impatience—tapping their fingers on the bridge’s work stations and exchanging worried glances.
“They’re not doing anything about the hole,” noted Felai. “That’s not a good sign.”
Odril came up beside the android and surveyed the tactical monitors. He couldn’t understand much of what they said—but he could understand enough to see what kind of trouble they were in.
He looked up at Data. “You used all the power in the ship’s batteries. There’s just enough to keep the life support going on the bridge—and pretty soon, that will be used up, too.”
Felai’s brow furrowed. “But without life support to sustain us…” His voice trailed off soberly.
Odril nodded solemnly. “We’ll all die.” He glanced meaningfully at Data. “Or maybe not all of us. Only those who need to breathe in order to survive.”
“There was no other way,” the android countered.
“It was either expend all our energy or resign ourselves to defeat.”
“Maybe there was another way,” Lagon chimed in. “At least, we could have given it some thought. We could have talked about it. Now it’s too late for that.”
“Wait a minute,” Sinna said. “Data did the best he could. None of us has any reason to—”
She was interrupted by a sudden flash of light from the viewscreen—a flash which obliterated the Opsarran graphics there and replaced them with something else. It was only after a second or two that the android realized it was a face.
Of course, it was different from any face he’d ever seen before. Not even vaguely humanoid; it resembled a collection of leathery bulges supported by a thin, metallic-looking stalk. If it wasn’t for the smooth, black orbs set roughly where eyes ought to be, Data might not have figured it out at all.
“I am S’rannit of the T’chakat,” said the alien. His voice—or perhaps it was her voice—was little more than a rasp. “I am confused. Why do you attack our field? Having discovered it, would it not have been simpler to go around it and proceed to your true target—our civilization?”
The android took a step forward. “I am Data of the Federation. We mean no harm to your civilization—or to any other, for that matter. Our vessel’s computer log will prove that—as will the log of our comrades, the Opsarra. All we want is for you to return our comrades to us.”
The leathery bulges seemed to contract and then enlarge again, though not all at the same time. “If you mean us no harm, as you claim, what are you doing here?”
“We were simply passing through this sector,” the android explained. “We did not know that we would be disturbing anyone by doing so.”
“And your assault on our field?” asked S’rannit.
“We had no way to contact you … to initiate a dialogue. By attacking your field, we hoped to prod you into communicating with us.”
The alien made the sort of noises that humans made when something was stuck in their throats. However, he—or was it she?—displayed no signs of discomfort. The android got the distinct impression that S’rannit found some small degree of humor in the situation.
“Obviously,” noted the alien, “you were successful in your efforts to encourage communication. That was quite clever of you.”
Again, the bulges of S’rannit’s face seemed to shrink and expand. If Data was correct in his interpretation of what that meant, the alien had assumed a more serious demeanor again.
For a while—a full minute, perhaps—there was silence on S’rannit’s part. The Yann began to get fidgety, to whisper among themselves. But the android didn’t say anything. He just returned the alien’s scrutiny and waited.
Finally S’rannit spoke again. “We have decided to comply with your request and return your comrades … as well as those of the Opsarra. Unfortunately, our civilization has had much contact with aggressors in the recent past, which is why we created the defense field in the first place. However, our experience has been that truly warlike races seldom try to recover their vanished comrades. They simply desist and look for easier prey.”
Data felt Sinna grab his arm. “We did it,” she breathed, careful to keep her voice from being heard by the T’chakat.
But S’rannit seemed to hear her anyway. Apparently, his or her auditory sense was more acute than that of the Yann.
“Yes,” the alien. agreed. “You accomplished your objective. However, we require that you—and the Opsarra as well—withdraw from this area as soon as your crews have been restored to you.”
“I regret to inform you,” said the android, “that we cannot do that. You see, both our vessel and that of the Opsarra are in immediate need of repairs as a result of our encounters with your field—and in both cases, one of the systems that has malfunctioned is the one which propels us through space.”
Again, S’rannit made that gagging noise. This time Data was certain that it bore a close kinship to laughter.
“Very well,” responded the alien. “You will be granted a reasonable amount of time to effect the necessary repairs. What is more, we are discharging power from our field into your ship’s batteries, since we see now that you expended your reserves with your bold maneuver. But when you are again capable of interstellar flight, you must leave us and promise never to return.”
“I agree to your most generous terms,” the android declared. “What is more, I believe my Opsarran counterpart will agree to them as well.”
“Good,” said S’rannit. “Then we have an understanding.”
In the next moment his face—or could it have been her face?—d
isappeared from the viewscreen in a flash of light, leaving in its wake the collection of Opsarran graphics that had been there previously.
Data looked back at Lagon, Odril, and Felai, who seemed to have clustered in one spot behind him. The Yann looked back.
“They said they would return our crew,” Felai reminded the android. “So where are—”
Before he could complete his query, the bridge was bathed in a blue-white radiance that even Data had to flinch from. When it subsided, the place was full of people in Starfleet uniforms.
The bridge crew had been restored. And not just the bridge crew, the android guessed, but every officer on the ship … as if they had never been gone in the first place.
Captain Rumiel was standing in front of his chair. He looked around. “We’re back,” he whispered. “We’re on the Yosemite.”
“That is correct,” said Data, though he knew he was stating the obvious. “The T’chakat let you go, once they realized they had nothing to fear from us.”
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “The … T’chakat? Those are the people who put us in that huge cell?”
“I am not familiar with the place of which you speak,” the android responded. “However, they are indeed the ones who imprisoned you.”
Rumiel tilted his head to one side. “And how do you know that?”
“We spoke with them,” Data responded. “And they are quite reasonable, once you get to know them.”
The captain seemed to be at a loss. “What are you saying? That you were responsible for their releasing us?” He took in Data and the Yann with a disbelieving glance. “Come on. Don’t tell me a handful of cadets did that.”
“I will comply with your wishes,” the android told him. “However, it will leave a significant gap in your understanding of the situation.”
The captain’s eyes narrowed even more. “Then you are responsible.” Slowly a smile crept over his face. “You’ll have to tell me more about this, Mr. Data—later. First, I’ve got an alien ship to deal with.”
Star Trek: The Next Generation: Starfleet Academy #6: Mystery of the Missing Crew Page 7