by David Mack
During Ezthene’s absence, Nezrene had helped the Starfleet scientists unlock many of the most arcane secrets of the Shedai’s technology. Though she had offered Ezthene well-reasoned arguments for her actions, he remained ambivalent on the subject of whether she had done so in error. But before they’d had the chance to debate the matter to a satisfying conclusion, the Shedai Wanderer attacked the station, and in her mad rampage to reach the laboratory the Starfleeters called the Vault, she’d wrought massive damage to several sections of the station—including Nezrene’s half of their environmentally engineered living space. A burst of blinding light and frigid cold had announced the Wanderer’s arrival, and then one of her smoky appendages solidified just long enough to cut Nezrene down and leave her broken and twitching.
It had been to the credit of the Starfleet engineers that they had acted with all haste to seal the breach in the bulkhead—though Ezthene suspected they’d done so more to protect themselves than to save him—but there had been nothing that any of them could do for Nezrene. Her life had been snuffed out in a wild flurry of violence, one for which Ezthene was sure there would be no retribution. No consequences. No justice.
Since then he had been alone. Unlike Nezrene, he had never known the cruel touch of the mind of a Shedai, so he had no idea how to help the Federation scientists in their quest to pilfer the Shedai’s ancient secrets. More important, he had not wanted to help them. In his opinion, these long-buried secrets were best left unearthed.
Some days, however, his isolation became so unbearable that he almost considered volunteering himself to help in their experiments, for no other reason than to dispel the crushing boredom and suffocating loneliness of his solitary existence. Most of all, he longed for contact of any kind with another Tholian mind. He wished that he possessed the technical expertise to construct a subspace thoughtwave transmitter. Even the daily waves of vilification he was certain to receive would be preferable to the utter silence that enveloped him.
Instead, he passed the interminable spans reliving moments from his memory-facets, savoring the emotional colors and the harmonious tones of concordance that had once been his norm, the soothing auras of—
Agony split his mind in twain.
Psionic roars of fury washed away all his thought-colors except those of primal terror. Scathing hues of hatred and a cacophonous, piercing shriek disrupted his mind-line and left his thoughts broken and scattered. He knew this sickening dread, this overpowering sensation of being telepathically smashed down and torn apart. This could only be the Shedai.
The brutal onslaught of images beyond understanding, thoughts too alien to comprehend, and truths too horrifying to face swallowed him like the volcanic fires of Tholia reclaiming the husks of its dead. Paralyzed and robbed of vigor, Ezthene collapsed in a trembling mass, cut down as certainly as if a Shedai tentacle had cleaved his thorax in half.
Collapsed on the deck inside his habitat, with his quaking limbs curling inward like those of a hatchling, all he could do was pray for death.
There was no escape from the white-hot sound of rage and the icy touch of enslavement.
The entire Lattice reeled in shock from the violation of Tholia’s communal thoughtspace. Every Castemoot and SubLink faltered and collapsed before the Shedai’s unstoppable pulse of unadulterated malice. The infinitely variegated hues of billions of Tholian mind-lines blanched and faded, and all the sonorous chimes of harmonized expression fell silent.
Flickering thought-facets recalled the terror of the Shedai thoughtwave they had been forced to extinguish years earlier. That incident had traumatized the Lattice like no other tragedy in all of Tholian history. Now every mind that possessed the Voice knew only fear and suffering, an excruciating violation orders of magnitude worse than its predecessor.
Hereditary memories that had been passed down for hundreds of millennia, ancient knowledge locked in the crystalline molecules of every Tholian mind, suddenly erupted forth, like liquid fires shattering the Underrock from below. Locked in the throes of unspeakable torment, every Tholian throughout the galaxy remembered their ancestors’ first moment of sapience: the moment when they understood that their dolor came from the ones known as the Shedai, the Old Ones who had engineered the Tholians for their own purposes.
With the memory came a collective resolve to slay their oppressors and be free.
Silence.
Emptiness yawned in the mind of every Tholian. For the first time that any of them could remember, the Lattice was devoid of hue or tone. The Voice of the Shedai had gone, leaving only the exquisite aching of the void.
Luciferous fury erupted from every level of the Lattice, and bright hues of indignation fountained from every SubLink and Castemoot. Tholians of every age, station, caste, and hue cried out for a war to answer the oppressors’ wrongs.
With supreme effort, the members of the Ruling Conclave elevated their mind-lines above the psionic maelstrom engulfing the whole of the Assembly and convened in their private SubLink of the Political Castemoot.
Destrene [The Gray] was the first to compose his mind-line. The Enemy has risen!
The thought-colors of Korstrene [The Amber] were tinted with alarm. Our sensing units on the border have confirmed it: the power of the Old Ones has been unleashed.
I have opened a thoughtwave to the armada, declared Eskrene [The Ruby]. She tried to project calming hues into the discussion. We will know the truth of this soon enough.
Yazkene [The Emerald] scintillated with rage. We already know the truth! The Federation’s soldiers on the starbase did this! They are in league with the Old Ones!
Dissent swelled within the Conclave’s ranks, momentarily drowning out all Voices with deafening waves of scarlet anger. Radkene [The Sallow] rose above the clamor to call for order. We must be certain before we act. If what we sensed was accidental, we will calm the other castes and remain vigilant. If it was the Enemy’s dying thoughtburst, we can rejoice.
Cynicism and suspicion gloomed the mind-line of Falstrene [The Gray]. And if it was the Federation taking up the Enemy’s standard?
Then we must avenge, affirmed Narskene [The Gold].
A dulcet chime signaled the inclusion of armada commander Tarskene [The Sallow] in the Conclave’s private SubLink. His thought-colors were golden with loyalty but tinged with distress. Hail and concord, Exalted Ones.
Velrene [The Azure] answered on behalf of the Conclave.
Harmony and clarity, Commander. What news do you bring of the Enemy?
The commander projected a series of sensing-unit transcriptions ahead of his reply. The Voice of the Enemy originated from within the Federation starbase. Interception of their long-range subspace communications has confirmed their use of the Shedai thoughtwave for destructive purpose. Their target appears to have been a lifeless world inside their own space.
The mind-line of Azrene [The Violet] flickered with uncertainty. A test? Or a warning?
Hostile colors coursed through the Conclave. We should assume the worst, insisted Radkene. We gave the Federation a chance to act for the greater good. They failed.
The will to vengeance within the SubLink flared to a blinding intensity, and there were no colors of dissension. Destrene issued the unanimous judgment of the Conclave.
If the Federation will not destroy the Enemy, we must. Commander Tarskene: Launch your assault—and leave no survivors.
29
A deep groan became a falling hum as the array cycled down to its standby power levels. As the last creepers of violet electricity vanished from the consoles ringing the isolation chamber, Xiong heaved a grateful sigh. That could have gone a lot worse, he reminded himself. All the major indicators on his panel had receded from their red-bar warnings to the hairline separating cautionary yellow from “all’s well” green.
He asked Klisiewicz, “How was that for operations?”
The Endeavour’s black-haired science department chief regarded his own panel with a tired and wary frown. “
No errors, no feedback loops, no interference,” he said. “As for whether it actually did what it was supposed to do, I have no idea.”
“Containment’s holding,” Theriault reported without being prompted, “but only just by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin. If we run this same experiment again tomorrow, I can’t guarantee the whole thing won’t go up like a bomb and take us with it.”
“Noted,” Xiong said. “Let’s run a full diagnostic and make sure we didn’t break anything.” While Theriault and Klisiewicz subjected the array, the isolation chamber, and all its related systems to a thorough review as a precaution before conducting more experiments, Xiong left the shielded area of the master control panel and made a quick review of the outer stations’ data, so that he could add those findings to his report. He would file a detailed account of the test’s success, qualified with all the appropriate caveats and warnings, but he was fairly certain no one at Starfleet Command or Research and Development would pay any attention to anything except whether they had achieved the desired result.
He stopped at an unmanned auxiliary station beside the isolation chamber and compared the readings from several different sensor palettes to see if they had detected any interesting new correlations. As he waited for the computer to finish its analysis, he couldn’t help but stare at the array. His eyes were drawn to the web of interlinked crystals, all of which now burned with the wild, kaleidoscopic hues of captive Shedai essences. Though he and the now-departed civilian scientists had mastered the challenge of negating the artifacts’ fear-inducing aura, he imagined he could still sense the terrifying energy trapped inside those fragile containers.
Stop, he told himself. Shake it off. You’re freaking yourself out. It’s just nerves, is all.
From the overhead PA came the voice of the station’s senior communications officer, Lieutenant Judy Dunbar. “Ops to Lieutenant Xiong.”
Xiong opened a response channel from the work console. “This is Xiong.”
“You have a priority transmission from the starship Repulse on a coded frequency.”
This was it: the verdict on their insane undertaking. “Patch it down here, please.”
“Routing the signal to your office,” Dunbar said.
Xiong hurried across the lab, dashing and dodging around the other Starfleet scientists, until he reached his office. He scrambled behind his desk and saw that the signal from the Repulse was waiting to be answered on his secure terminal. As he sat down, Theriault and Klisiewicz appeared in his office doorway, and he waved them inside as he opened the channel. The face of the Repulse’s youthful commanding officer, Captain Eugene Myers, appeared on his screen. “Captain Myers,” Xiong said, coiled with anticipation.
“Lieutenant Xiong,” Myers said, his manner guarded. “My crew and I don’t know quite what to make of the readings we’ve taken for you.”
“Just give me the high points, Captain.”
“The high points? All right. For no reason we can determine, space-time folded in on itself, pulverized Ursanis II—a Class D planetoid—and then the whole mess winked out of existence. Would you care to explain that? Can you explain that?”
“I’m sorry, Captain, I’m afraid all other details of this operation are classified. I presume you and your crew have already been briefed by Starfleet Intelligence?”
Myers cocked one eyebrow with suspicion. “Yes, we’re all painfully aware that we were never here, this never happened, and we didn’t see any of what didn’t happen. Or else we’ll all be living out the rest of our natural lives in a penal colony on Izar’s frozen moon.”
Xiong nodded. “Sounds about right. Thanks for your help, Captain. Xiong out.” He switched off the terminal, closing the subspace channel, and looked up, wide-eyed, at Theriault and Klisiewicz. “Did you hear that? We just obliterated a planet at a range of ninety-six light-years with the press of a button! Even the debris disappeared.” He reclined his chair and took a deep breath to slow the furious tempo of his pulse. “Wow.”
Klisiewicz looked stunned. “I can’t deny it’s kind of a rush to think we’re controlling that kind of power. But all I can think about is what’ll happen if it winds up in the wrong hands.”
His sentiment seemed to strike a chord with Theriault. “Ming, can you think of a single good reason why Starfleet would need to be able to crush planets from a hundred light-years away? Or even a slightly not-crazy reason?” She raised her hands in a pantomime of surrender. “Because I’m drawing a blank, here.”
As much as Xiong wanted to bask in the satisfaction of a major accomplishment, monstrous though it might be, he had to admit his friends were right. Nothing about this experiment boded well for the future, and imagining all the ways this technology could be abused filled him with a pervasive dread. “Then I guess the next question—”
The beeping of an internal comm cut him off. He thumbed open the channel. “Xiong.”
“This is Jackson” said the station’s chief of security. “I need you up here at Ezthene’s habitat, on the double.”
The urgency of the request drew troubled looks from Xiong and his two colleagues. Worried that he already knew the answer, he asked, “Why? What’s going on?”
“It looks like our resident Tholian’s having a psychotic episode.”
Xiong was out of his chair and running for the door. “On my way.”
Five minutes later, Xiong dashed out of a turbolift and sprinted the last several meters to the outer hatch of Ezthene’s customized habitat. Inside the enclosure, the pressure and temperature were extreme enough to disintegrate most organic matter, and the majority of substances that could survive those elements would succumb to the corrosive effects of the various compounds that served as an atmosphere for their Tholian refugee.
Lieutenant Haniff Jackson waited beside the hatch with Lieutenant Felicia Knight, the station’s preeminent expert on Tholian biology. The two of them peered through a ten-inch-thick viewport of specially treated transparent steel. Neither seemed to note Xiong’s approach, so he called out, “What’s happening in there?”
Jackson stepped aside and motioned for Xiong to take his place. “See for yourself.”
Xiong pressed up against the window and peered into the ruby mists of Ezthene’s habitat. “Where is he? I don’t see him.”
“Look down,” Knight said.
As indicated, the expatriate Tholian was lying on the deck in front of the inner hatch, below a unique interface panel that had been designed to enable Ezthene to initiate contact with those outside his segregated compartment. His orthorhombic limbs were all curled inward, as if to shield his abdomen and thorax. Xiong asked, “Has he moved?”
“A couple of times,” Jackson said. “He alternates between—”
Ezthene sprang from the deck and flailed about in wild, jerking movements. His piercing screech shrilled over the open intercom channel like a diamond drill cutting through duranium. He slammed his body against the walls and the inner hatch, and his ponderous thuds of impact were audible through the reinforced bulkheads. Xiong recoiled by instinct as Ezthene threw himself violently against the transparent barrier.
Hoping to end the tantrum, Xiong reached over and spoke into the intercom. “Ezthene! Calm down, please. It’s me, Ming Xiong.” Ezthene continued his display, his ferocity undiminished. “Ezthene, can you hear me? It’s Xiong. Please respond!”
“The voice!” shrieked Ezthene, his words sounding as harsh from the universal translator as they did in his native language. “The voice!”
He kept repeating those same two words, over and over, until Xiong turned off the intercom. “That’s not good,” he muttered.
Knight turned her baffled stare in his direction. “You know what that means?”
“I have some idea,” Xiong said. “But please don’t ask. I guarantee you really don’t want to know.” He turned toward Jackson. “Have you been maintaining surveillance on Ezthene?”
“Twenty-four seven,” Jackson said, “just like t
he admiral ordered.”
Xiong said to Knight, “I need your tricorder. Now.” She lifted her tricorder from her hip, ducked out from under its strap, which had crossed the front of her blue minidress, and handed the device to Xiong. He handed it to Jackson. “Patch into your security logs and confirm the exact moment Ezthene started going berserk. Hurry, please. It’s important.”
Jackson worked quickly, and several seconds later he said, “His seizure, or whatever we’re calling it, began at precisely nineteen seconds past 1622 hours.”
“That is definitely not good,” Xiong said, feeling as if the floor had dropped out from under him. Inside the habitat, Ezthene ceased his wilding and slumped back to the deck, his narrow limbs once again retracted like a clutching talon around his segmented torso. Xiong reopened the comm channel. “Ezthene? Are you still conscious? Can you hear me?” He thought he heard the scratching sound of a reply from within, but the translator remained silent, so he increased its audio sensitivity. “Ezthene? Can you repeat what you said?”
“Must . . . silence the voice . . . .”
A final twitch and then he was still. Jackson scanned him with the tricorder. “He’s alive.” He squinted at the tricorder’s display, then turned it upside down. “At least I think he is. I can’t make heads or tails of his biology.”
Knight plucked the tricorder from his hands. “Let me.” She checked the readouts, “Ezthene appears to be in a catatonic state. It might be part of his healing process.”
Xiong didn’t like the sound of that. “Might be?”