No Limits

by Peter David

  “ ‘Thou shalt always be pedantic’?”

  Soleta was tempted to reply in the affirmative. “No. It best translates into English as ‘infinite diversity in infinite combinations.’ Since humans have a predilection for abbreviations that rivals my people’s tendency toward pedantry, it has been simplified to ‘IDIC.’ ”

  “Oh, so that’s what that means. I’d heard it before, but I never knew what it stood for.” Pak scratched his expansive jaw with one massive finger. The guard’s hands were unusually large, even for his already-prodigious two-point-three-meter height. “I figured it was the Vulcan word for your planet or something.”

  “The Vulcan word for our planet is ‘Vulcan.’To call it otherwise would be illogical.”

  Pak frowned. “Humans call their planet Earth.”

  “I do not believe that anyone has ever accused your species of being logical.”

  The frown became a grin. “Good point, well made.”

  They were standing in one of the control rooms of an outpost that once had the designation T-22. Located on Kalandra Minor, it had been a frontier outpost in the early days of the Federation, intended as a jumping-off point for colonization. Unfortunately, the bulk of the worlds beyond T-22 proved unsuitable for one reason or another. Federation expansion went in different directions, and the outpost was eventually decommissioned a century ago.

  Now, however, the Cardassian Union—in their continued aggressive expansion that had been going on for the past four decades—was moving into the area of space the planet occupied. Given the Federation’s continued hostilities with the Cardassians, Starfleet Command felt it might not be a bad idea to make Outpost T-22 a going concern again.

  To that end, a team from the U.S.S. Aldrin, an Oberth-class ship, was sent to the surface of Kalandra Minor to evaluate the outpost and see if it could be salvaged and/or upgraded, or if it needed to be scrapped and rebuilt entirely. While the team—led by the Aldrin’s second officer, Lieutenant Ashanté Shimura—performed that evaluation, the Aldrin itself was patrolling the sector to make sure that the Cardassian incursion into this sector wasn’t farther along than intelligence reports indicated. The ship would return in three days to pick them up and return to Starbase 375 with a report.

  The away team consisted of Shimura; five enlisted engineers, under the command of Ensign Tania Tobias (her first command situation, though Shimura was there to back her up as necessary); half a dozen security guards, including Pak, led by Deputy Chief of Security Wheeler; the ship’s conn officer, Ensign Worf, who was there to gain away-team experience; and three science officers, Soleta among them.

  Kalandra Minor was a relatively small planet that was mostly covered in oceans laced with an acidic compound that made the liquid fatal to most humanoid races. Indeed, the risks inherent in maintaining an outpost on a planet that was eighty percent covered in a lethal substance was one of the contributing factors to it being decommissioned. One of the landmasses was a four-square-kilometer island, on which sat fifteen buildings, composing Outpost T-22. At present, Soleta was assigned to the small structure that housed the enivronmental controls. Among T-22’s manifold functions was to be as storage for goods en route to those colonies that never actually materialized, and the controls here maintained those storage facilities.

  Soleta tapped her combadge. “Soleta to Shimura.”

  “Go ahead, Ensign.”

  “I have completed my examination. For a two-century-old environmental-control console that has been left unmaintained for one century, it is in remarkable condition.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, it should be abandoned and replaced with a modern unit as soon as possible. What is remarkable is that it has not fallen to pieces. It should be moved to a museum as an example of the soundness of Starfleet structural engineering practices of the twenty-second and twenty-third centuries.”

  Shimura laughed, though hers was a much more pleasant sound than that of Pak. Soleta stifled an urge to tell Pak to emulate it. “I’ll make a note of your recommendation, Ensign. Return to the main base. Most of the other teams are making similar reports. About the only thing that’s actually working are the defensive and security protocols—and even so, they’re still a hundred years out of date.”

  “That is not entirely surprising.”

  “No, but it may mean we sit on our thumbs for three days until the Aldrin comes back.”

  “Quite possibly. Soleta out.”

  “Wow.”

  Soleta turned to the security guard. “ ‘Wow’?”

  “Well, I thought for sure that you’d make some kind of comment about how illogical it would be to sit on your thumbs.”

  “And why would I say such an idiotic thing, Mr. Pak?” Soleta snapped.

  Pak recoiled as if he’d been punched in his immense jaw. “I’m—I’m sorry, Ensign, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just making conversation.”

  “Were you? A piece of advice, Mr. Pak: Do not always listen to what they say. I have found—”

  Whatever it was that Soleta had found was cut off by the sound of an explosion.

  “Away team, report to the main building now !” That was Shimura’s voice, coming over both Soleta’s and Pak’s combadges. More explosions could be heard through the tiny speakers. “Worf, raise shields! Tobias, identify that thing!”

  The phaser rifle that had been slung over Pak’s shoulder was now firmly in the guard’s oversized hands. “C’mon, Ensign.”

  Without waiting to see if she was behind him, Pak ran for the exit to the small structure. Soleta followed, easily keeping up with the taller human’s massive strides, and admonished herself for losing her temper the way she did. It was frustrating—she had always worked so hard to maintain the Vulcan disciplines, yet she lost control so easily. Others, who made far less effort than she, were able to keep their emotions in check so well, they almost lived up to other species’ stereotypes of Vulcans’ robotic behavior. But for Soleta, it was always as if there were a volcano waiting to erupt in her heart.

  She supposed that was why she had always gotten along with Worf, the first Klingon in Starfleet. She and Worf, along with Tobias and two other classmates, had formed a study group and stuck together throughout their four years at the Academy. Worf—as a Klingon growing up among much more fragile humans—had to learn to keep his passions under control. In a way it was much more difficult for him, as Vulcans had had millennia to perfect the techniques for suppressing their emotions, where Worf had no cultural precedent to follow. Indeed, the very idea of suppressing emotions was anathema to most Klingons, but it was necessary for Worf to survive.

  Still, both of them had largely succeeded. Aside from moments like I just had with Pak. But those moments have become more common of late….

  The ground shook. Soleta did not lose her footing; nor did Pak. She looked up to see that some kind of disruptor fire was striking a shield barrier—and the barrier was not holding up well. She could not see where the shots were coming from, though she did recognize the weapon type as either Klingon or Breen.

  Or Romulan, she added, though that was unlikely, all things considered. The Romulan Star Empire closed its borders after the Tomed Incident five decades ago, though there had been occasional rumblings from them in the time since—mostly directed at the Klingon Empire. But this is far from either Empire’s sphere of influence.

  She and Pak entered the main control room. Shimura stood with Tobias, Worf, and two more security guards. The two ensigns were seated at the old-fashioned consoles, with their toggle switches and blinking lights. Worf was the picture of calm intensity, sitting ramrod-straight in his chair, the gold Klingon sash he wore over his red-and-black uniform bunching up a bit at the shoulder. Tobias was the opposite—her blond hair was tousled and she looked more apprehensive than she had during finals week of their last year at the Academy.

  Shimura stood behind them, one hand resting on the back of each of the ensigns’ chairs. Her smooth a
lmond skin seemed to be pulled tight over her high cheekbones. The two guards stood behind her, phaser rifles at the ready. Pak took up position next to them, while Soleta moved to stand just to the left of Shimura.

  The large viewscreen in front of the trio showed a tactical display, with a circle labeled UNIDENTIFIED VESSEL flying in a fairly standard attack pattern: Fly down toward the outpost, level off and do a strafing run on the outpost, fly back upward, circle around, and start again.

  “Can we get any kind of reading?” Shimura asked.

  “No,” Worf said. “Sensors are unable to determine the ship’s configuration.”

  So it is a ship attacking, Soleta thought. That was the most logical deduction from the disruptor blasts she and Pak had seen on their way here.

  The ground shook once more. Worf looked up at the ceiling, then at Shimura. “Shields will not maintain integrity for much longer.”

  “I’m amazed they’ve held up this long,” Tobias said through gritted teeth. “These shields are older than dirt.”

  Soleta turned to Pak. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan to comment on how illogical it would be to classify the shields as being of a greater age than the ground beneath our feet.”

  Pak scowled at her. “I wasn’t going to, Ensign.” Soleta noted the all-business tone, and regretted her outburst. During the relative downtime of the outpost investigation, Pak was attempting to be friendly, albeit somewhat clumsily, but now that there was a crisis he was all business.

  As I should be. She opened her tricorder and used it to scan the area immediately above, on the theory that her top-of-the-line tricorder was more sensitive than T-22’s century-old sensors. After a moment, it told her something surprising. “Sir, the vessel attacking us is a Romulan transport vessel, probably Golgaroth class.”

  Worf rose from his chair, his hand going to his phaser. “Romulan?”

  “Mind your post, Ensign,” Shimura snapped. “What the hell are Romulans doing here?”

  “Shooting at us,” Balbuena, one of the security guards, muttered.

  “The Golgaroth class is a civilian design, Lieutenant,” Soleta said. “It also dates back to a time when we had better intelligence on the Romulan Empire, and is therefore likely to be at least fifty years old. I would guess that this is not an official engagement of their military. The ship can theoretically hold up to fifteen passengers, but I am only reading two life signs.”

  Three of the engineers came running in. One of them, a human woman named Mattacks, said, “Phaser banks are completely dead, sir, the torpedo bays are empty, and the firing system’s offline.”

  The ground shook with another impact. “Shields are down to fifteen percent,” Tobias said, sounding frantic. Soleta could see a rivulet of sweat running down her forehead from her blond hair. “Another shot, and we’re dead.”

  However, Mattacks wasn’t finished. “But we’ve got an ion cannon in perfect working order.”

  Soleta frowned. Shimura noticed this. “Something wrong, Ensign?”

  “An ion cannon would be consistent with the construction date of this outpost, Lieutenant. However, I question the description of it as in ‘perfect working order,’ given that the weapon’s very unrealiability is what led to its falling out of common usage.”

  “Maybe, Ensign,” Mattacks said with a grin, “but it beats a kick in the head.”

  “Speaking of which,” Tobias said, “we’re about to get kicked in the head. They’re coming in for another pass.”

  Worf pointed at one set of controls at his station. “Are these the ion-cannon controls?”

  Sounding surprised that Worf deduced this on his own, Mattacks said, “Uh, yeah—yeah, that’s it.” Soleta almost smiled at that—Worf’s aptitude for weapons systems was impressive, though not something that had come up much in his time as a conn officer on the Aldrin. His range of study had been broad at the Academy, preparing him for both the command track he was currently on or for a career in security, at which Soleta suspected he would be more comfortable.

  “Fire when ready, Mr. Worf,” Shimura said.

  “Yes, sir.” The young Klingon spoke with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

  The ground shook much harder from the firing of the ion cannon than from the Romulan barrage. Sparks flew from the console, blowing Worf and the chair in which he sat—as well as Shimura, who was standing behind him—backward.

  “Worf!” Tobias cried.

  “I am all right. See to the lieutenant.”

  Soleta, however, was already doing so. Shimura had burns on her forehead and cheek and was unconscious. She looked up at Pak and the two next to him. “We need to take her to the infrimary.”

  “Afraid not,” said a voice from the doorway. Soleta turned to see the squat, bulky form of Tynan Wheeler, the Aldrin’s deputy security chief, who had entered along with one other security guard. “The infirmary was trashed on that last shot when the shields went down. Janzen, DeBacco, Cuirle, Lieutenant Ordo˜nez, and Ensign T’a’a’y’r were all in there when it went up.”

  Everyone except Soleta and Worf looked up in shock at that. Janzen and DeBacco were two of the engineers; Cuirle was a security guard; Ordo˜nez and T’a’a’y’r were the other members of Soleta’s science team.

  Tobias ran back to her console and peered into the old-fashioned sensor hood, blue light shining on her face. “Dammit, confirmed. They fired just as the ion cannon hit them. The Romulan ship has gone down, but they took out the infirmary and two of the barracks. And both shields and the ion cannon are fried.”

  Soleta turned to Tobias. “What are your orders, Ensign?”

  Tobias whirled around, her blond hair bouncing with the action. Her face was still covered in sweat. “My orders?”

  “With Lieutenant Shimura unconscious and both Lieutenant Ordo˜nez and Ensign T’a’a’y’r dead, that only leaves you, me, and Ensign Worf as ranking officers. You are in command of the engineering team, which is the primary component of this away team, therefore logic dictates that you should be the one to take command for as long as the lieutenant is incapacitated.”

  “Uh, right. Okay.” Tobias took a moment to compose herself—a moment more than she probably should have, in Soleta’s opinion, but this was hardly an expected turn of events—and then looked at the Klingon. “Ensign Worf, you will lead the damage-control team. Assess our situation, see if the shields can be repaired, and try to fix the ion cannon.”

  “Aye, sir,” Worf said with a curt nod. He gave another nod to Mattacks and the other engineers, who fanned out.

  To Wheeler, she said, “Chief, search the wreckage of the Romulan ship for survivors.”

  “What if we find some?”

  Tobias hesitated. Soleta jumped in. “Lieutenant Shimura indicated that security protocols were still intact. That means the brigs are working.”

  Wheeler nodded. “Yeah, and they’re still in one piece.”

  “All right, then, bring any prisoners there,” Tobias said.

  “Yes, sir.” Wheeler led Pak and the others out.

  “Soleta, try to keep Lieutenant Shimura comfortable. There’s a first-aid kit in here somewhere.”

  “Of course, Ensign.” She scanned the room for the material that would be found in such a kit, and quickly found it located under one of the secondary consoles. Standard placement.

  “And Soleta?”

  The ensign turned to look at her former classmate. “Yes, Tania?”

  “Thanks a lot.” Smiling grimly, Tobias turned back to the console.

  Soleta did not bother pointing out that her actions were wholly logical. It wouldn’t do to come across as pedantic, after all….

  Tania Tobias sat dolefully looking at the console. She felt guilty every time she touched one of the ancient controls, convinced that the museum guard would yell at her not to touch the exhibits. But no, she thought, these are all real, working components. Well, some of them are, anyhow.

  To her continued annoyance, many of the colored lights
were not lit, meaning they were dead, or were lit with red rather than green illumination, meaning they were not working properly.

  Helluva first command.

  A deep, booming, yet gentle voice said, “Tania.”

  Tobias turned around to see Worf and Soleta standing side by side. For a moment, she imagined that they were back at the Academy getting ready for a class, along with Zak Kebron and Mark McHenry. But no, they weren’t cadets anymore. They had the single pips indicating their status as commissioned officers in Starfleet, not mere plebes, and they wore the uniforms of command red (Worf), sciences blue (Soleta), and operations gold (herself), not the plain red-and-white of cadets. People are dead and injured. No, this is as real as it gets.

  More than ever, she just wanted to collapse in Worf’s arms and have herself a good cry. But officers didn’t do that, and she had long since lost the opportunity to tell Worf how she felt. She doubted that he viewed her as anything other than a friend. Not that it was easy to tell how Worf felt. Ever since his and K’Ehleyr’s rather nasty breakup, he had gotten more withdrawn and stony, if that were possible.

  Taking a deep breath through her nose and exhaling it in a burst through her mouth, Tobias said, “Report.”

  “Communications are completely inoperable. The subspace transmitter and receiver were both destroyed in the final attack.”

  “Damn.”

  Soleta’s right eyebrow raised. “I assume Lieutenant Shimura sent a distress call when the Romulans first attacked.”

  “Of course,” Worf said.

  “But we don’t know if anyone replied to it,” Tobias added, “or even heard it. Nothing’s salvageable?”

  “Mattacks and her team are attempting to do so now, but she was not optimistic.”

  Tobias slumped her shoulders, then straightened. Dammit, I’m in command. I need to look like it. True, it was just Worf and Soleta—if there was anyone who would let her off the hook for not being completely spit-and-polish, it would be these two. Though, she mused, they probably would be disappointed. She decided that that would be even worse, and forced herself to keep her best command face on. Assuming I even have one.