Star Trek: Voyager: Children of the Storm

by Kirsten Beyer

  Part of Eden knew he was right. She also knew from her readings of his and Kathryn Janeway’s personal logs that Chakotay never hesitated to present the big-picture view of the forest, particularly when Janeway found herself obsessed by a particular tree.

  “I will take your concerns under advisement, Captain,” Eden replied sternly.

  “Thank you,” he replied, and left without another word.

  Once she was alone, Eden did him the courtesy of seriously evaluating what he had said. Though she didn’t want to hear it, and his delivery could have been less harsh, he wasn’t wrong to raise the issue.

  But none of that mattered right now. Almost eight hundred of her people were missing in the Delta Quadrant. She’d be damned before she would send out another hundred and forty and simply hope for the best. Chakotay had experience. He was wise, capable, and for the most part, able to see clearly through his emotions and focus on the task at hand. She didn’t doubt his abilities at all. But Eden knew this fleet in a way he couldn’t. His choices might be logical, but they would be made in the absence of her level of understanding.

  She had to go. And she didn’t give a damn if he thought she was making this decision for the wrong reasons. Eden knew she was right, and that would have to be enough.

  Chapter Eight

  FIFTEEN DAYS EARLIER

  U.S.S. QUIRINAL

  Is this why you have brought us the life?

  Farkas knew the universal translator was functioning properly. The first bit of this conversation had made perfect sense. And to keep it on good terms, part of her wanted to simply say yes and figure out later what “life” the alien now inhabiting one of her junior science officers was talking about. But in this case, her word would be taken as a contract, and she couldn’t possibly accept terms until she understood exactly what she was being asked.

  “The life?” she asked, hoping the alien would clarify.

  Instead, the cold, tinny voice said, “The Children of the Storm will accept the life, and you will leave our territory and never return.”

  “What do you mean by ‘the life’?” Farkas tried again.

  “The life,” the alien replied simply. “Did you not know it would please us?”

  “There are hundreds of different species aboard our vessels,” Farkas said. “Can you possibly be more specific as to which ‘life’ pleases you?”

  “The simple life.”

  Farkas could sense frustration growing in the alien’s voice, so she opted to try another tack.

  “The United Federation of Planets that I represent would be pleased to establish peaceful trade between our peoples, but all life is precious to us, and I cannot agree to leave any life-forms behind until I understand—”

  “The Children of the Storm do not negotiate with destroyers of worlds,” the alien’s voice, sharper now, cut her off.

  “I fear you are confusing us with the Borg. Our Federation is based upon peaceful exploration.”

  “You carry death with you.”

  Hoping she understood the metaphor, Farkas replied, “We possess weapons and other technology to defend ourselves, should the need arise. But we are not conquerors and we are not destroyers. We do not explore space in the interest of adding to our own resources. We do not take what is not freely given. We respect all life—cherish it, in fact—and seek only to add to our knowledge in a spirit of mutual trust and understanding.”

  A brief pause from the alien gave Farkas cause to hope that she might have finally made her point.

  “We have not misunderstood you or your intentions. We will take the life. You will leave our space or you will cease to exist.”

  Or not.

  “If it is truly your wish that we leave your space, we will do so, and I can assure you that this time, my people will not return. Our only interest was to promote understanding and peace, but if you would rather—”

  “Bridge to Captain Farkas,” Roach’s voice blared over the comm.

  “Pardon me for a moment,” Farkas said, cursing Roach’s lousy timing.

  “What is it?” she demanded sharply.

  “You should return to the bridge immediately, Captain.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “I’ll transfer our visual to the display in your present location.”

  Farkas moved to a nearby screen and watched as a number of the vessels surrounding her ship broke off to add to those that already covered Planck and Demeter, and moved to within only meters of their shield’s outer edge. She entered a command into the panel that would provide a closer view of Planck. The individual vessels, dozens of small, deadly, perfect spheres, were now concentrated enough to bump against one another. Where they impacted, they merged, blending into one another. Within seconds it appeared that a solid blanket of energy surrounded Planck. The computer also indicated an increase in the power of the resonance field of the new configuration. To the naked eye, the field would have been invisible, but the lights reflected by nearby stars and the three Federation ships made it glimmer with what Farkas could only sense was deadly force.

  Restoring the visual so that she could see all three ships, she saw that the vessels surrounding Demeter were moving into the same merged energy field. The circle that had surrounded her ship at some distance now showed visible holes, but that hardly comforted Farkas.

  Turning back to Ti’Ana, she pleaded, “Please, wait,” fearing that diplomacy had already failed.

  U.S.S. PLANCK

  Only moments ago, the viewscreen before Captain T’Mar had clearly shown the field of what he now believed was a prelude to a battle. Quirinal and Demeter had been completely surrounded by the small energy spheres, as was his ship. The only disruption to normal operations was the severing of their communications with their sister ships. He knew that Ensign Solonor was trying desperately to restore communications. Before T’Mar could see his way clear to firing on the alien vessels, he needed confirmation from Captain Farkas either that communication with the Children of the Storm had not been established, or that all diplomatic efforts had failed.

  Admiral Batiste’s orders to all fleet captains on this subject had been crystal clear. Voyager had made too many enemies during its first trip to the Delta Quadrant. Precious few of the alien races they encountered ever truly understood the Federation or its principles. T’Mar had heard it privately said that they had acquired the name “ship of death” among many they had never met, but who had heard of the lone ship far from home. Armed conflict was to be a measure of absolute last resort.

  As T’Mar’s options dwindled, he found a new sympathy for Captain Kathryn Janeway and the crew she had led. Perhaps a bad reputation wasn’t so much to risk when the other option was unthinkable.

  The image on the viewscreen began to distort. Quirinal and Demeter against a sea of black were momentarily stretched out into wavy lines before resolving into a field of static.

  “Solonor?” T’Mar said, knowing full well the ensign would know the questions that needed to be answered.

  “I can’t punch through the interference on any channel,” he replied distractedly. “We’re losing visual as well as communications.” Clearly the bulk of his attention was where it should be: on the job at hand.

  “There is a change in the configuration of the vessels surrounding us,” Lieutenant DeCarlo reported from tactical.

  Dread pulled T’Mar to his feet.

  “What kind of change?”

  “The distinct energy patterns of the individual ships are dissipating, almost as if they are losing coherence.”

  For a split second, T’Mar wondered if this might not be a sign of weakness and therefore a good thing.

  Tregart stood beside DeCarlo, conducting a simultaneous analysis. “The energy field created by the spheres is expanding,” he warned.

  So … not a good thing, then.

  “Grim, engage impulse engines,” T’Mar ordered. “Let’s try and shake them off.”

  “Helm not responding
, Captain,” Grim advised.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know,” Grim replied, clearly frustrated. Like everyone else on the bridge, he was doing two things at once: evaluating an ever changing situation while trying to make their respective stations function properly. “My commands are being accepted, but they aren’t producing any results.”

  “Same here,” Solonar echoed, then added, “Our shields are buckling.”

  “Hull pressure is rising,” Tregart added.

  T’Mar searched his mind desperately for an alternative.

  “DeCarlo, fire all phasers.”

  “Firing phasers,” DeCarlo replied.

  “No effect,” Tregart reported for him, a few seconds later.

  “Bring the warp drive on line,” T’Mar ordered. “The formation of our warp bubble might interfere with their energy field.”

  Grim nodded and shifted his hands to the warp control panel.

  His soft “Aye, Captain” were the last words T’Mar heard.

  U.S.S. QUIRINAL

  Time froze as Farkas caught sight of Ti’Ana’s face. It was impassive, unheeding of her plea, and unyielding. A red mote caught in the corner of Farkas’s eye, and her face turned automatically back to the display panel. For a moment, the energy field surrounding Planck seemed to grow brighter. The computer display of its intensity had registered in crimson digits of warning.

  Blood.

  And fire.

  A low thrum rose into Farkas’s ears and her heart began to pound with an intensity that made it feel as if it were looking for a way out of her chest. With each powerful beat, it slowed and the wave of noisy circulation increasing the pressure in her head became a roar of white noise. The image of Planck on the screen before her imprinted itself deep into her permanent memory, its pristine white hull wrapped in an angry field of untold power. Farkas wished she could stop her heart, for she knew that with the next beat …

  Planck vanished, replaced by billions of intensely bright fragments of what looked for a moment like stars. The deck below her feet rocked, almost sending her careening to the floor.

  And then the fire was gone, along with the energy field. At least the Federation’s people weren’t the only dead to be counted. Chunks of wreckage rolled outward in all directions, littering space with horror.

  The pounding in her head and chest was joined by warm rage exploding from the center of her body. The waste and senselessness of what she had just witnessed was too much to bear.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” she said, turning back to Ti’Ana savagely. “You just killed seventy people for no reason at all.”

  “We will take the life,” was the alien’s maddening response.

  Farkas felt the last of her self-control slipping away.

  “Unlike you, we do not take life so lightly. But make no mistake. We do know how to defend ourselves when we have no other choice.” After a brief pause, during which she steadied herself, knowing that to act at this moment from the pure fire of her emotions would be unworthy of all who wore the uniform, she called to Commander Roach. “Farkas to the bridge.”

  With one last glance at Ti’Ana’s merciless face, Farkas gave the order she had always dreaded.

  “Target all alien vessels and open fire.”

  Psilakis was still reeling from the sight of Planck’s destruction. His stomach turned on him and he feared he would retch. Placing his hands on his knees, he forced himself to swallow the acrid-tasting saliva pouring into his mouth and breathe. The sound of Captain Farkas’s voice finally brought him upright again.

  “Farkas to the bridge. Target all alien vessels and open fire.”

  Something small and vengeful in Psilakis shouted with righteous rage.

  Damn right.

  He had to believe that everyone else on the bridge shared this feeling, inappropriate as it might be. He turned to Denisov at tactical, envious that at this moment he could not be the one to exact reparation from the Children of the Storm. An unexpected shot of adrenaline sickened him again when he realized that Denisov was not responding to the captain’s order.

  Psilakis scanned the bridge quickly. All the officers stood their posts, and none of them seemed inclined to do their jobs. They all stared passively at the viewscreen, obviously in shock.

  “Lieutenant Denisov!” Psilakis shouted to break the spell. “The captain gave you an order.”

  Denisov remained perfectly still, his hands at his sides.

  It took mere seconds for Psilakis to assess the situation. This wasn’t shock. This was something else. But for the moment, he didn’t care.

  Psilakis rushed to Denisov’s side, grabbed him by the shoulders, and attempted to force him out of the way. The lieutenant was heavy, but gave ground. Psilakis had barely entered the first targeting solution when an iron arm encircled his neck from behind, constricting his airway.

  His hand instinctively fell, reaching for his sidearm. Two more sets of icy hands grabbed his, subduing him.

  I’m going to die too, he realized as stars began to flash before his eyes.

  But not like this.

  With the last burst of energy he could muster, he snapped his head back, meeting what he figured was Denisov’s face. The pain of the impact almost finished him, but the move allowed him to gasp one breath. He felt one hand break free and threw his elbow into Denisov’s gut just for good measure.

  Scuffling of feet told him that reinforcements from the rest of the bridge crew were coming to Denisov’s aid. The heel of his palm landed squarely in Jepel’s face as Roach’s fist met his gut. Psilakis bent forward, and this time, he did lose the contents of his stomach. He barely noticed that it was flecked with blood.

  He fought like a wild animal, jerking himself around, landing a punch to Denisov’s face that sent him to the ground and barely recovering in time to land a solid kick to Roach’s midsection.

  In the few seconds he was free, he used one hand to grab his phaser and the other to enter the fire command into the tactical station. Roach was the first to rise, and Psilakis aimed his weapon, set to maximum stun, and fired. Another punch landed in his low back, sending new, unbelievable pain arching up his spine and down his legs, but his hand remained locked around his weapon. He raised it again and began to fire at everything that moved toward him.

  Ensign Yuka believed she was dreaming. She remembered dressing for her duty shift half an hour earlier and breaking her fast with a nutrient bar before making her way to the aft shuttlebay. She remembered greeting Mavila as she took over his position at the bay’s control panels and configuring the station for her use. She remembered the shipwide announcement of Yellow Alert, followed shortly after by the Red Alert Klaxon.

  But all of these memories now felt like someone else’s. The lapse of time between them no longer registered in her mind. She couldn’t have done them. She must still be asleep in her bunk, imagining that she had started her day but actually stuck in the throes of a dream that would not release her.

  It caused her less alarm than perhaps it should have, then, when she watched her right hand move to the shuttlebay door release controls, lower the shields directly outside the bay, and, using her personal security authorization code, open the doors.

  These were the actions of someone else. She would never have done this. She had received no orders to open the shuttle bay. She had to be dreaming.

  Only when a single sphere filled with brownish gray atmosphere had glided into the bay and come to rest, floating above the deck right before her eyes, did it dawn on her that she had wandered into a nightmare.

  Yuka struggled to wake. Her head began to swim and a tingling heaviness almost stilled her breath. Her right hand began to drift toward the interior bay door release. She tried valiantly to hold it back.

  But it was no longer her hand.

  Someone else had entered her mind unnoticed and locked her away in a small cell from which she could only watch her body’s actions.

  W
atch … and fear.

  Her attention shifted from the hand she could not control back to the sphere. Where there had been one only moments before, there were now two—no, three. The new spheres were considerably smaller than the first, less than half a meter in diameter. They orbited the larger one like small moons. Soon another joined them, pulling itself off the main sphere with ease.

  Her right hand had completed its mutinous task. The doors that would grant the spheres access to the rest of Quirinal were now open, and, one by one, the smaller spheres, borne of the single invader Yuka had unwillingly allowed to breach her ship, floated out into the adjacent hallway.

  There, the spheres were met by a small contingent of Starfleet personnel. Relief flooded what was left of Yuka’s own consciousness. She was certain her people had arrived to deal with the invaders.

  Her confusion turned to terror when each sphere was surrounded by a group of officers who calmly led them farther into the ship.

  She tried to raise her left hand to alert the bridge of the intruder’s presence. The moment she did, a slicing pain shot down her left arm. The more she struggled to move through it, the more it began to blaze.

  Trapped in her tiny cell, Yuka began to scream.

  U.S.S. DEMETER

  Fife had realized he was out of time the moment the alien vessels moved to surround his ship. Url wasn’t going to get the slipstream coordinates plotted quickly enough for them to avoid the aliens, and Falto’s evasive maneuvers had proved futile. Once they were surrounded by the Children of the Storm, the helm had stopped responding.

  He ordered Red Alert and contacted O’Donnell briskly, all but ordering him to the bridge, unwilling to engage in a justification session in front of the rest of the bridge crew. O’Donnell had hesitated when he received Fife’s request, but he had agreed to report and was presumably on his way.

  Fife could only hope that when the captain arrived, he would at least acknowledge that up to this point his first officer had done exactly what he believed was expected of him. Fife knew his job right now was to remain calm, but between the escalating danger of the situation and the prospect of facing O’Donnell with his failure of judgment—I should have gone to high warp the minute the aliens were detected and bought us time to make the slipstream jump, Farkas’s orders be damned—he was flush with a heady combination of anger and fear.