Star Trek Prometheus -Fire with Fire

by Christian Humberg

  “Hey, Quark,” a muscular Chalnoth with a thunderous bass in his voice shouted. He was clad in black clothing, and held an enormous tankard full of Romulan ale in his hand. “Switch on FNS!”

  “I know, I know.” The Ferengi proprietor sighed, facing his guest with an extremely undiplomatic glare. “And I guarantee you, I will get this holoscreen up and running.”

  “Preferably before the Federation News Service begins with the broadcast,” another voice, which spoke with an Irish accent, shouted from a different corner of the establishment with a taunting undertone. “Otherwise, we might as well have stayed at home to watch it.”

  Quark groaned. His hands clutched the lapels of his garish coat as if that would provide him with much desperately needed support. Finally, he faced the caller. “If you’re in such a hurry, Chief, you might as well help me. It’s a technical problem, after all, isn’t it, computer?”

  “Negative. There is no technical problem. All systems are working within normal parameters.”

  The chief in question burst out laughing. Zh’Thiin sighted him: a sturdy human with curly hair, wearing a uniform with operations gold. Shaking his head, he said, “I’m afraid you’re on your own with that one, Quark.”

  “That’s Chief O’Brien,” Carson whispered. “The station’s engineer.”

  “Well, well.” Curiously, Kirk looked across the room. “I’ve heard a lot about O’Brien. I look forward to working with him during the repair cycle.”

  “Pull yourself together, Jen,” Carson said. “He’s happily married with two kids.”

  “Really? Is his wife pretty?” Kirk grinned broadly.

  “Keiko O’Brien is gorgeous, and also more than fifteen years older than you.”

  “Bah, that doesn’t mean anything. You know how good facials work these days.”

  Carson rolled her eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

  “Who started it?”

  Meanwhile, the crowd had begun to stir. More and more guests lost their patience with the proprietor and his lack of ability to activate the live broadcast from Earth. All of them seemed to have come here mainly for the public viewing of President zh’Tarash’s speech.

  Bewildered, Quark looked up to the ceiling. “No technical problem?” A series of curses in his mother tongue followed. Zh’Thiin was grateful that she didn’t understand them. “Computer, how is that even possible? Either, the screen works, or it doesn’t.”

  “The holoscreen is in perfect working order.”

  “So why don’t you switch it on then?” The Ferengi was almost screaming now.

  A completely new voice sounded from the speakers. “Because you didn’t pay the last installment.” It was male, low, and sounded smug. “Or did you assume I would send you a brand new receiving unit, and unlock a thousand Federations channels without you fully paying me?”

  Quark sighed. “Rento.”

  “That’s right, you skinflint,” the male voice said. Quark’s efforts must have opened a preprogrammed comm frequency straight to the vendor. “Did you really think you could negotiate down the price even after you signed the contract?”

  The unrest of the guests turned into protest. Several people rose from their tables. Two Vulcans headed for the exit. A lonely Lurian at the counter stared into his tankard in disappointment.

  “Rento,” zh’Thiin murmured, looking at Carson. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that an Orion name?”

  Her crewmate grimaced. “Yeah. Sounds like Quark has been buying from the wrong people again. The Orion Syndicate are not the most accommodating business partners. Especially if you’re trying to pull a fast one on them.”

  “Negotiate down?” Quark’s voice was cracking as he watched his guests move toward the exits in droves. “Rento, what are you thinking? I just intended to make use of the promised discount, and—”

  “There was no promised discount, Quark.”

  “What? Of course there was. It’s part of the contract, isn’t it? If the delivered technology is faulty, the purchase price may be reduced by six point three seven percent.”

  “The technology is not faulty.”

  “Oh yes, it is!” Quark swallowed hard, when a table full of Bajoran laborers took to its heels in order to watch the broadcast elsewhere. “Last night, when I…”

  “Just transfer the rest of the money, Quark,” Rento cut him off. “And then I will unlock your subscription, and activate your holoscreen.”

  One of the leaving Bajorans put his hand on the Ferengi’s shoulder. “Listen to the man, Quark. Otherwise, your establishment will be even emptier than the Badlands.”

  Laughter rose, mainly the derogatory kind. Someone asked for the bill here, someone else emptied their glass quickly there. Quark’s had lost its fascination, for this evening at least.

  Its proprietor seemed to realize that. “You will activate it immediately?” Quark asked plaintively.

  “Instantly,” Rento said. “Oh, look! Zh’Tarash approaches the lectern. Oh, wait, I forgot. You can’t see it. How uncouth of me.”

  Quark’s shoulders trembled with obvious anger. His hands tucked on his lapels as if he intended to rip them off. “That’s blackmail.” His words were almost drowned out by the general noises of people leaving.

  “That’s market economy,” Rento sounded unfazed. “Hey, I think she’s about to begin. I can see it on my screen. Crystal clear. What about you?”

  Barai leaned over to his crewmates, grinning broadly. “The opening act in this bar is even more entertaining than the main act. What an amazing location.”

  “Welcome to DS9, Doc,” Carson said. She nudged zh’Thiin gently, glancing at her both conspiratorial and amused, and raised her voice. “Pay him already, Quark. We want to see the future.”

  The Andorian understood the hint immediately. “Fu-ture! Fu-ture! Fu-ture!” she chanted, clapping her hand on the table with every syllable.

  The people waiting on the other tables joined her. The barely dressed man from the Dabo tables clapped his hands demandingly. Waiters drummed the rhythm on their tablets. Even the guests already heading for the exit stopped dead in their tracks, enthralled by the absurdity of the situation, looking at their host challengingly.

  “Fu-ture! Fu-ture! Fu-ture!” they chanted.

  Quark’s trembling shoulders sagged. Finally, he lowered his hands, and closed his eyes. “Computer,” he sighed, “voice authorization. Clear transfer Quark-Delta-Seven.”

  The computer voice came back. “Authorization accepted. Transfer executed.”

  Almost immediately, a square holoscreen generated by hidden emitters appeared about one meter over the center of Quark’s. It displayed the vast chamber of the Federation Council in the Palais de la Concorde on Earth, in almost perfect three-dimensional projection. The image closed in to the woman at the lectern: President Kellessar zh’Tarash.

  “About time.” The Bajoran laborer nodded and returned to his table. His colleagues and many of the other guests followed suit. Several dozen eyes as well as some antennae turned toward the holoscreen.

  “Always a pleasure doing business with you,” said Rento approvingly. The perverse delight in his voice was unmissable.

  “Oh, shut up,” the Ferengi snapped. He turned around, trotting back to the counter where the Lurian waved an emptied tankard in his direction.

  Shaking her head, zh’Thiin looked at her crewmates. “I told you,” she whispered, pointing behind her with her thumb. “This so-called future isn’t half worth it so far!”

  “Let’s hope you’re wrong, Commander,” said ak Namur. The Renao folded his arms across his chest, and turned his expectant gaze upon the newly elected president.

  4

  NOVEMBER 1, 2385

  Starbase 91

  Starbase 91 had seen its best days more than fifty years earlier. Built in 2275, the Watchtower-class station had served as a transit point and guard post on the periphery of the Federation. Some still referred to it jokingly as the “l
ast gas station before the unknown,” even though the uncharted territories actually started many light-years further out.

  Around the turn of the twenty-fourth century, the main task of the mushroom-shaped station and its more-than-two-thousand strong crew had been to monitor ship movements this side of the Klingon border, as well as keeping an eye out for ships traveling through the sector to the distant Gorn Hegemony. To this end, a constantly upgraded deep-space sensor array had been erected in close proximity to Starbase 91. It was capable of picking up warp signatures from light-years away, and analyzing them.

  But then fifty years of peace had begun. The Romulans had withdrawn beyond the Neutral Zone after the Tomed Incident, the Klingons had gradually become allies of the Federation following the destruction of Praxis and the Khitomer Accords, and there had been no sign of the Gorn. Thus, Starbase 91 had been left to its own devices, which had led to its slow deterioration. Even when the Gorn reappeared on the galactic stage during the Dominion War and later when the Typhon Pact was founded, that process hadn’t been reversed. Four years previously, plans had been drawn up for a new fleet base within the Cestus system, bordering on Gorn space. These plans had been put into motion at the urging of the then-Federation president, and Cestus III native, Nanietta Bacco. Starbase 91 had become a dilapidated station along a rarely used highway across the vastness of space.

  Lieutenant Karen Adams wasn’t bothered at all by any of that. The station’s conduit system had its blackouts now and again, the seats in the tramway that ran along the outer edges of the upper shield section were decidedly worn, and the technological equipment wasn’t just outdated, it was antiquated. But to Karen, it was all part of the starbase’s charm.

  Starbase 91 was Karen’s first post as communications officer since graduating in the middle of her Starfleet Academy class three years previous. The dark-haired young woman was regarded as an imperturbable blithe spirit by her colleagues. She had always been fascinated by the adventurous way of life and the somewhat more robust designs of the last century. Since only a handful of starships from that era were still in service—the Excelsior and Miranda classes were about it, and they only served within the Federation’s secure core areas—Karen had actively sought a transfer to a space station that was as old and as far away as possible.

  She had wound up here in the middle of nowhere, where her only neighbors were the ill-tempered Klingons and the solitary Renao people. The territory of the latter was limited to a small area in space dominated by a significant cluster of red giants known as the Lembatta Cluster. Starbase 91’s duties included taking astrophysical readings of the cluster and keeping a watchful eye on its red-skinned and extremely introverted inhabitants.

  As a communications officer, Karen’s sole participation in that aspect of Starbase 91’s standing orders consisted of relaying communiqués with regard to the study of the cluster. That, and sitting in the Starlight Café in the upper part of the habitat area and marveling at the impressive stellar backdrop. Many times she had asked herself what life would be like on a world orbiting one of those red giants. But the Renao hadn’t permitted anyone to cross their borders for centuries, and the Federation respected the sovereignty of non-associated planets.

  Maybe the Renao will change their minds one day, Karen thought, stepping onto the turbolift that would take her to the operations center at the top of the station where she was reporting for duty during gamma shift. She sincerely hoped the Renao would do so. You didn’t live next door to someone for three years without becoming curious about them.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Karen said to her already-present fellow crewmates in ops.

  A general murmur met her greeting. “You’re the only one on board saying ‘good morning’ just before midnight,” said Lieutenant Gabriel Marceau. The colonist from New France staffed the sensor station that was adjacent to her comm console.

  “I only just got up for work,” Karen said. “To me, it’s morning, no matter what the station computer says.”

  “To each their own illusions.” Grinning, Marceau turned back to his instruments.

  Karen didn’t point out that all notions of “day” and “night” were illusory on a space station. Helping maintain that illusion, gamma shift was only half staffed during the “night.” The conference table on the raised platform in the center of ops—with its eight terminals for the senior officers of the station—was empty during this shift.

  The watch officer, Lieutenant Commander Agram, was a generally insular and not particularly zealous Tellarite. He was rapidly approaching his retirement, spending his final years in Starfleet working the graveyard ship of an out-of-the-way starbase. He preferred ambling around in circles for half of the shift to keep an eye on everything. Occasionally he would withdraw to an empty space in a corner. There, he would fold his hands in front of his belly, looking lost in thought. Karen imagined that in his mind he was already spending his time with a cool drink on a beach on his homeworld—or whatever Tellarites considered to be the ultimate relaxation.

  All in all, the mood during gamma shift didn’t quite adhere to the protocol described in the Academy’s manuals, which suited Karen fine. She detested military drill, and she likely wouldn’t have lasted very long on her uncle’s ship, the U.S.S. Prometheus.

  But even outside of renowned battleships, the tone within Starfleet had become sterner in recent years. Constant galactic crises such as the Dominion War, the Borg invasion, or the current conflict with the Typhon Pact were the reason that the militarists among the senior officers were increasingly calling the shots.

  Lieutenant Alari, the slender, attractive Tiburonian woman who ran communications during the Beta shift, puckered up her full lips as she rose from her chair. “You’re five minutes late.”

  Karen glanced down at the time display on the screen. “You’re right. Sorry. I had breakfast with Lieutenant Cox in the Starlight. We obviously forgot the time.”

  “Cox?” Alari regarded Karen with obvious curiosity.

  “From astrophysics.” Placing the small gray transmission receiver in her left ear, Karen took her station.

  A wicked smile appeared on Alari’s face. “Haven’t you spent an awful lot of time in the astrophysics lab during the past few weeks?”

  Defensively, Karen raised her hands. “We’re just friends.”

  “Sure you are.” Alari giggled.

  “Would you two care to let us be a part of your conversation?” Agram’s rumbling voice echoed across ops.

  Alari snapped to attention. “Begging your pardon, sir. It’s nothing important.”

  “Haven’t you been relieved of duty, Lieutenant Alari?”

  “Yes, sir.” Embarrassed, Alari brushed one of her big, strikingly shaped ears with her hand.

  “Well, in that case, off you go. Get away from my ops.”

  “Consider me gone, sir.” Alari glanced at Karen one last time. “We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow. Have a quiet shift.”

  “Thanks. And good night to you.”

  “Funny, I thought it was morning for you.” With a grin, Alari swiftly left ops.

  Karen turned toward her communications controls. The quiet shift Alari had wished was the norm for her in any case. Very few ships crossed this sector, and the number of ships docking in the middle of the station’s night was even fewer. Tonight there was one of the latter: the U.S.S. Lakota was on approach. The Akira-class cruiser made its rounds in the Lembatta Cluster, stopping by the starbase every couple of weeks. The ship would arrive in a few minutes, at which point Karen needed to supervise the docking procedure.

  She called up the frequency analyses of Echelon 1, the starbase’s deep-space sensor array. Its sensors were so precise that some people jokingly claimed that it could detect the hairs growing on Chancellor Martok’s head on Qo’noS. Of course, those claims tended to stay among the junior officers. The prim superior officers like Agram didn’t approve of such jocularity.

  Right now, th
ere was silence in deep space. Echelon 1 read clear. Leaning back in her chair, Karen switched the surveillance back to automatic.

  Marceau leaned over to her from his sensors. “Lieutenant Cox? Seriously? That guy is as stuffy as a Vulcan.”

  Karen rolled her eyes. “We’re just friends. He’s also interested in the Ancient Reds.” The Renao referred to the Lembatta Cluster by that term. “He showed me some of his latest observations.”

  “Oh? And what are the celestial bodies up to? Do they see more action than the Klingons?”

  “That depends. Do you remember me telling you that there’s a strange radiation coming from the center of the cluster?”

  “Vaguely. You said the radiation was somewhat exotic and didn’t correspond to the spectrum of red giants. Weren’t you going to send an information request to the Vulcan Science Academy?”

  “Yup. Still need to do that.”

  Marceau raised his eyebrows. “It’s been months since you told me about it.”

  Karen waved her hand dismissively. “Work, social engagements… You know that time flies on the station.”

  The lieutenant grunted. “You seem to be working on a very different starbase to me.”

  “Anyway, the radiation has increased again, so we were hoping to close in on its source, finally. Guess what: It’s impossible. Our instruments just aren’t able to pinpoint the location of the highest radiation density.”

  “Have you tried using Echelon?”

  “Are you kidding me? This is Cox’s and my private project. I know better than to ask Captain Hillenbrand to realign the array for that. I—”

  A beep interrupted her. Karen faced her console.

  “Oh, that’s the Lakota. I’m sorry, Gabriel, duty calls.”

  He nodded, turning his attention back to his own displays.

  “Starbase 91, this is the U.S.S. Lakota,” a voice came from Karen’s receiver. “Requesting permission to dock.”

  Karen dutifully turned to Agram. “Commander, the Lakota is requesting docking permission.”