Star Trek: Enterprise - Surak's Soul

by J. M. Dillard

  [143] Wanderer kept silent.

  “Then you have destroyed an entire world of peace-loving beings,” T’Pol said. “You can hardly claim to be a pacifist yourself.”

  You hold primitive beliefs, because you are close to being primitive yourself. Your own similarities to the humans blind you to your differences from them.

  “I submit that your belief system has blinded you to the damage you have caused.”

  Clearly, I cannot reason with you on this issue. And Wanderer disappeared abruptly—simply vanished, without apparent movement—from the spot.

  T’Pol stared at the now empty space with a sense of failure. She had hoped, logically, to persuade the creature to find an alternative food source, since it claimed to value peace so highly. Yet how could she persuade it that humans—and Denobulans, for that matter—possessed true consciousness, when Wanderer could not sense the existence of their minds?

  And now that the truth had been revealed, how could she prevent Wanderer from destroying the rest of the Enterprise crew at will?

  In engineering, Cutler and a number of assistants had already brought down the three stricken victims—Phlox, Reed, and Hoshi—on portable beds, and set up a makeshift sickbay of [144] sorts. But there had been only one portable life-support, and Cutler had decided, with the professional steadiness worthy of the most senior chief medical officer, that Phlox, the weakest, would have access to it.

  Amazingly, Hoshi and Reed continued breathing on their own—there had been some uncertainty as to whether their life functions would fail without the equipment available only in sickbay.

  Cutler herself looked ragged, ready to fail at any moment, despite the fact that she was still distraught over the disappearance of the Oani corpse. None of the medics in sickbay had managed to locate it. The captain couldn’t help wondering whether Wanderer was somehow responsible.

  “That’s it,” Archer said, once the patients were set up. “You’re off-duty, Ensign.”

  Tucker led her to an out-of-the-way corner of engineering, where she lay on the deck, hand tucked beneath her head, and fell fast asleep. Archer envied her.

  But this was no time for him to rest; he went over to the nearest bulkhead companel and pressed the shipwide broadcast control. “This is the captain speaking ...”

  His utterance was interrupted by a decidedly shrill burst of static. He grimaced and made the beginnings of a gesture to cover his ears, but instead terminated the channel, then tried again.

  [145] “This is the capt—”

  The speaker screeched, this time so loud Archer succeeded in clapping his hands over his ears. “Dammit!” He lowered one hand just long enough to punch the control, cutting off the sound.

  It was enough to totally distract Trip, who had been sitting on his haunches in his engineer’s trance, scanning the warp engine with a sensor newly calibrated to pick up the most sensitive energy fluctuations. He scowled over his shoulder at Archer. “What the heck is that?”

  Archer had his suspicions, but did not answer; he gave it one more try, this time choosing a single channel. “Archer to bridge.”

  Another squeal. The captain punched a control and tried sickbay, only to grimace again at the annoying static. Admitting defeat, he cut off the channel for the final time. Communications were definitely out.

  “Coincidence?” Trip asked dryly.

  “Too much of one. Sounds like T’Pol has already had that interesting little talk with our friend.” He did not add, Let’s hope she comes back; he was utterly concerned she would not, and the thought that Wanderer, who had so deceived her, might now harm her filled him with outrage.

  “Captain.”

  He glanced in the direction of the urgent summons to see one of Cutler’s commandeered [146] medical assistants—a lieutenant from the science department—waving frantically at him.

  Beside the lieutenant, lying on the portable bed, Hoshi Sato was blinking and looking at her surroundings, her brow wrinkled with confusion.

  Archer was next to her in a heartbeat, overwhelmed with delight at this unexpected turn. “Hoshi! How do you feel?”

  “Gross,” Hoshi croaked. “Am I delirious, or are we in engineering?”

  Archer grinned. “You’re not delirious.”

  She paused, and then a look of horrified remembrance came over her features. “Oh my God—Wanderer! Captain—”

  “We know,” Archer said gently. “Wanderer killed the Oanis. Wanderer apparently tried to kill you. That’s why we’re in engineering—apparently, the warp drive emits some form of energy that disrupts it. We’re hoping that’ll keep us safe from it. Given the fact that I’m talking to you, I’m going to say that’s a pretty sound assumption.”

  “No, you don’t understand!” Hoshi was so agitated, she clasped the captain’s wrist. “Kano—the Oani woman, the corpse that we brought up from the planet’s surface. Wanderer used it—animated it. I guess it needed a humanoid in order to interface with the computer.”

  Archer felt himself pale. “My God ... Ensign Cutler said a corpse was missing from sickbay.”

  [147] Hoshi’s expression remained distraught. “Captain, Wanderer is using it.”

  For an instant, Archer closed his eyes and shook his head. After a long silence passed between them both, the captain said at last, “All right. At least we know what we’re up against. But we’ll find a way to put a stop to it.”

  They both looked up at the sound of the doors to engineering opening. T’Pol entered—all in one piece—and despite the recent horrifying revelation, Archer couldn’t hold back a faint grin.

  “T’Pol! Thank God you’re all right!”

  The door closed behind the Vulcan; she paused just beyond it, and studied Archer with ostensible detachment. “No deity was involved, Captain. The fact is that Wanderer considers me ‘sentient,’ and therefore will not harm me.”

  She said it with utter coolness—but Archer felt he detected a hint of humor in her pretense at literalness.

  Trip, however, took umbrage. His work trance broken, he turned his head—body still crouching—to address T’Pol. “You’re saying that Wanderer considers us something less?”

  She remained unruffled. “Correct. Because it could not communicate with you humans—or with the Oanis—it feels it has the right to feed off your bodies’ electrical impulses.”

  “Let me guess,” Trip said sarcastically. “It’s a [148] personal friend of Ambassador Soval’s.” He turned back to his work.

  “You are free to insult my superior,” T’Pol said, “but you might find it consoling to know that Wanderer considers us Vulcans ‘primitive,’ and just barely sentient. It therefore ignored my attempts to reason with it.”

  “I think it killed the Oanis,” Hoshi said weakly, “by convincing another alien, a Shikedan, that the Oanis were dying from a microbe.”

  T’Pol’s upswept brows lifted slightly at the sight of the now-conscious ensign. “Ensign Sato,” she said. “I assume Wanderer attacked you when you learned something ... inconvenient.”

  Hoshi nodded. “It was so sad ... The Oanis were so peace-loving that they wouldn’t kill even a microbe. They accepted what Wanderer said without question, and died without investigating the cause of their deaths any further.” She shook her head. “Can you imagine ... being willing to die rather than kill a virus? To let your whole civilization die?”

  T’Pol considered this in silence.

  “Even more horrible ... Wanderer is using the body of the female Oani we brought aboard. She—it—the corpse appeared in the lab before I collapsed, and was entering commands into the main computer.”

  T’Pol was again silent a time; then she asked, [149] quite bluntly, “Are you sure it was not a hallucination, Ensign?”

  Hoshi scowled. “Of course I’m sure!”

  “All right,” Archer interrupted. “I don’t mean to cut you off, Hoshi. The story of the Oanis is a tragic one, and I mean to see that we don’t repeat it ourselves. Here’s th
e situation: Since Wanderer doesn’t like engineering, I want to get as many of our people down here as we can before it decides to feed again. The problem is, communications systems are down. I can’t raise anyone on this ship. I assume Wanderer has figured things out and is causing the problem.”

  “I’m feeling better,” Hoshi said, unconvincingly. She struggled into a sitting position. “I can try to see if there’s a way around the communications problem. ...”

  “Lie back down,” Archer snapped, with such vehemence that she complied at once. “So T’Pol, if it’s true that Wanderer won’t harm you, I want you to go alert everyone aboard the ship.” He paused. “Frankly, I’m concerned. If Wanderer knows that we know it’s a killer, there’s nothing to keep it from suddenly attacking everyone.”

  “I would not be so certain of that,” T’Pol said. “It could easily have attacked everyone when it came on board, without our being aware of it. But Lieutenant Reed and Doctor Phlox and Ensign Sato all collapsed at different times.”

  “And the medical logs indicated the Oanis [150] didn’t all die at once, either,” Hoshi chimed in. “Maybe it’s not capable of attacking more than one person at a time.”

  Several yards away, Trip Tucker at last rose from his crouching position beside the warp engine and looked up from his scanner at the captain. “Like I said: Maybe it’s full. Maybe it can only digest so much at one sitting.”

  “I think you’re on to something,” Archer said. “I also think T’Pol and I need to get going: someone’s got to warn the rest of the crew, and get them headed this way—the sooner, the better.”

  “They can’t all fit in here, Captain,” Tucker advised him.

  “I know,” Archer said. “But we can protect at least half of them, maybe more.” He turned to the Vulcan. “Let’s go.”

  Eight

  FIFTEEN MINUTES before the morning shift was to begin, Ensign Travis Mayweather stepped from the turbolift onto the Enterprise bridge ... and got an unsettling surprise.

  Mayweather always reported for duty fifteen minutes early ... and he had never, ever arrived on the bridge without seeing Captain Archer already seated in his command chair, and Sub-Commander T’Pol standing nearby at the science station.

  Today, the captain’s chair stood empty, and the science station was deserted. In fact, the bridge was empty save for a skeleton crew: Ensign Katerina Borovsky at the helm, and Ensign Ahmed al Saed at communications. No one stood at tactical to replace the fallen Lieutenant Reed.

  [152] “Mayweather!” Borovsky said, pronouncing the w almost, but not quite like, a v. Her expression went from anxious to relieved—clearly, she was glad to see a familiar face. She was auburn-haired, with what Mayweather considered traditionally Russian coloring—light brown eyes, and pale skin with a pinkish cast, that flushed easily. It flushed now, at the sight of Mayweather, who knew he was considered an old salt among the less space-traveled crew.

  “Where’s the captain?” Mayweather asked, with a nod at the empty chair.

  “Lieutenant Meir was supposed to fill in at command.” This time al Saed spoke. He was in his thirties, older than Mayweather and Borovsky, a bit shy and sweet-natured. Dark-skinned and athletic, he nursed what he thought was a secret crush on Borovsky, but which was public knowledge to the entire crew, including Borovsky. “She never reported.”

  “Ahmed tried to raise her,” Borovsky added, with her typical “take charge” attitude. “He got a channel but no answer. So he contacted sickbay—same thing. No one answering. As a last resort, he tried the captain’s quarters. ...”

  “Let me guess,” Mayweather said.

  Borovsky nodded. “No dice. And now there’s this horrible static on all channels.” She finally paused, disappointment clear in her expression and tone. “We were hoping you’d know whether [153] the captain was all right. We heard earlier about Hoshi—”

  “Hoshi?” Mayweather stiffened, alarmed.

  “She collapsed,” Borovsky said sadly. “I’m so sorry. I’m not thinking straight. Of course you wouldn’t know. ...” She and Hoshi were good friends; Hoshi always teased Borovsky by mimicking her Russian accent perfectly, which only made Borovsky laugh and slap Hoshi on the back with such force the exolinguist would feign a coughing fit after. Mayweather had socialized with the two of them a bit, and knew better than to try to bluff at poker when either Borovsky or Hoshi was playing.

  Mayweather had known that Reed had collapsed—he had voluntarily been among the last to receive his immunization against radiation sickness; but now, to hear about Hoshi ... The sight of the empty bridge took on a sudden ominousness, and he could understand why Borovsky and al Saed were so desperate for news of the captain. Without communications, it was easy to imagine the worst.

  And right now, Mayweather was imagining the worst himself. “Go ahead, you two,” he told the other officers. “I’ll take it from here. Someone else is bound to show up.”

  “I won’t leave,” Al Saed said, his polite, gentle voice managing to convey an unshakable firmness. “Not until the captain orders me.”

  [154] “I could order you,” Mayweather said. “No point in stressing your immune system. And if communications aren’t working—”

  “If communications aren’t working, I have to do my best to repair them.” Al Saed frowned. “Although I’ve never come across anything like this in simulations.”

  “Gremlins,” said Mayweather. “Welcome to space.”

  “Besides, you can’t order me,” al Saed pointed out. “We share the same rank.”

  “Well, I’ve been in space longer.” Mayweather figured he could make noises about being part of the senior bridge crew, but it seemed pointless, especially if communications had suffered critical damage.

  Al Saed smiled mildly, thin lips and broad black brows curving into mirror-image crescents. “I’m afraid that doesn’t count.”

  “Suit yourself.” Mayweather shrugged. He went over to the helm and motioned for Borovsky to move out of his seat. “Go on. You’re definitely off duty, Ensign.”

  “I’ll wait at tactical,” said Borovsky, as she slid out and stood. “At least until we figure out what’s going on.”

  Mayweather opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. He understood. While the bridge was always emptier, quieter during the evening shift, this morning it was disturbingly empty and quiet. [155] Something was amiss—they all knew it—and he realized that, were he in Borovsky’s situation, nothing could have forced him to leave. He simply nodded as he settled into his station ... then almost bolted to his feet again as a shrill blast of static assaulted his ears.

  “Good lord ...”

  “Sorry,” al Saed said sheepishly. “I keep having to reduce the volume when I test the different channels. It just keeps getting louder. ...” He sighed. “I just can’t find anything wrong with the equipment itself. If only Hoshi ...” He did not finish the statement.

  Mayweather tried not to finish it silently for him. Instead, the helmsmen focused on the readings before him: Engines humming along at a dizzying warp four. Course set for heading seven-zero-four-zero, which should lead to the planet called Shikeda, where they should be able to resolve the dispute about whether the disease afflicting the crew was caused by radiation or a microbe.

  Which of course led Mayweather to the thought that perhaps he should have gone down in Hoshi’s place—although that wouldn’t have made sense. Or perhaps he should have gone down in the captain’s place; why should the commander of the starship, the most vital member of the crew, be the one to take all the risks? Or he could have replaced Reed. Dr. Phlox, of [156] course—well, they had needed a doctor because it was a medical emergency. But it still didn’t seem fair. ...

  Al Saed’s companel let out another shrill blast.

  “My God,” Mayweather said, but this time he wasn’t reacting to the noise; he half rose from his station, was knocked back down to a sitting position by the helm console itself, and remained there, gaping at the reado
ut in front of him.

  As he watched, the course heading began slowly to change, from seven-zero-four-zero to six-nine-five-two, to five-seven-five-zero, to four-eight-five-nine. ...

  Mayweather began slamming controls. None had any effect on the course heading; in response, he tried to revert to manual, and began pressing controls even more frantically.

  Borovsky moved beside him to stare down at the impossible sight. “What is it?”

  “Our course is changing,” Mayweather gasped. “We’re turning around. ...” He batted at a few more switches, reverted from manual to computer and back. Nothing worked. “Helm is unresponsive.”

  “That can’t be,” Borovsky said, yet as she watched Mayweather follow the book on every possible procedure, she was at a loss to come up with a suggestion. She peered down with him, watching as the heading continued to change: three-two-seven-four, two-nine-nine-eight ...

  [157] Even al Saed left his repair attempt at communications to come over to the helm and stare with them.

  “This is crazy!” Borovsky exclaimed in frustration. “What could cause this?”

  “Nothing,” Mayweather said. Nothing except someone intentionally adjusting the course heading by overriding the helm controls—and why would anyone aboard Enterprise do that?

  As he spoke, the bridge doors opened behind them; the trio turned.

  “Captain Archer!”

  All three officers called out his name almost simultaneously; Mayweather’s grin was huge. “Sir, we were so worried something had—”

  “There’s no time to explain right now,” Archer said. “We’re in great danger from Wanderer. The only safe place on this ship is engineering; I need you three to head there right now.” When they hesitated, the captain added, “That’s an order!”

  “Sir.” Mayweather remained at his post, and gestured down at the aberrant console readings. “I’d leave, but the helm is malfunctioning wildly. We’re off course by almost ...” He glanced down swiftly. “One-eighty degrees, sir.”