by Diane Carey
Reykov’s last perception was of Vasska’s eyebrows drawing slightly together as the two men shared the wholeness of that final moment before obliteration.
Then Vasska’s face was covered with the false-color image, and Reykov’s mind, mercifully, stopped operating.
The false-color phenomenon drenched the aircraft carrier in its electrical wash. Within moments, there were no more life-forms on board. The immense vessel had been wiped clean of organisms, from the horde of humans to the smallest cockroach hiding in the cook’s shoe. Even the leather on the seats in the captain’s stateroom was gone.
There was only steel and wire and aluminum and titanium and the various fabrics—tarps and uniforms—that were recognizable as inert. The Gorshkov sat on the open water, empty.
The hull and the airfield it supported began to rumble, to vibrate. Ripples shot out from the hull at the waterline, creating patterns on the sea, and with every passing second the intensity of these vibrations mounted until Gorshkov was actually creating waves on the Black Sea.
The ship shook like a toy, shuddered, and was ripped in half as though made of chocolate cake. The shriek of tearing metal blared across the entire sea. Each piece of the ship became an individual explosion, a splotch of color inside the electrical vortex, and blew up like so many fragmentation grenades.
Ninety thousand gross tons of scrap metal rained across the waters of the Black Sea.
* * *
“Captain’s on the bridge.”
The U.S.S. Theodore Roosevelt (CVN-71) churned through the sea at the center of the six cruisers and seventeen destroyers that made up its carrier group. From where he came to a stop beside the navigation station on the bridge, Captain Leon Ruszkowski could easily see two of the Aegis cruisers plowing along at a distance of four miles off their forward and port beams.
“Nice,” he murmured. “Blue sky, warm day, waters of the exotic Mediterranean beneath, and a song in our hearts. Ah, to be in Paris. Or Athens . . . hell, pick a city.”
“Will coffee do?” Executive Officer David Galanter appeared, and sure enough the mocha scent of coffee, sugar/no cream, came with him.
The captain took the china mug and said, “Dave, you’ll make a hell of a headwaiter someday. We’ll all retire and open up a Greek restaurant in east L.A. Admiral Harper could be maître d’ . . . Annalise can cook. . . .”
Air Wing Commander Annalise Drumm broke off her enchantment with the flattop and looked his way. “Do I get free breakfast?”
“Poached octopus on whole-wheat toast, our specialty.”
She smiled and rolled her eyes. “After a while we could replace the octopus with those little pink erasers that come on the tops of navy pencils. Nobody’d know the difference.”
“We’d probably get a write-up in Connoisseur. Dave, what’s that blip?”
“Sorry, sir . . . one minute. Compton, check that.”
The captain moved closer, squinting. “Gone now. What was it?”
Galanter shook his dark head and frowned. “Not sure, sir. All stations, verify integrity of the area.”
A very subtle change came over the bridge. Highly trained crewmen moved into action so smoothly that the series of exercises was barely distinguishable from what went on when they were doing nothing.
Then the radar officer calmly said, “Picking up six blips, skipper . . . correction—seven blips. Seem to be fighters.”
“Fighters from where? Annalise, you got hardware in the air I don’t know about?”
Annalise crowded him at the monitor, suddenly possessive of their airspace. “No, sir, all fixed-wings are in.”
The captain’s brows drew closer. “And the Dwight Eisenhower’s three thousand miles away. Get an ID, Compton.”
“They seem to be seven MiGs, sir. Signature radar says configuration is MiG-33B, Naval Version.”
“Are we under attack?”
“No, sir. Their missile radar is not on.”
“What are MiG-33s doing here? What happened? Who speaks Russian?”
“I do, sir,” Compton said without taking his eyes from his screen.
The captain didn’t hesitate. “Get on there and find out what’s up.”
“Uh, yessir.” He bantered into his comm set in Russian, and within seconds came back with, “Skipper, Soviet CAP is requesting permission to land on our flattop. Says they’re out of fuel. Coming in at high warble. Very agitated.”
Commander Drumm and the exec crowded the captain as he frowned and muttered, “Seven MiG-33s want to land on a U.S. CVN? Must be some bitchin’ reason. I don’t suppose we better wait for a note from Mother on this one.”
Galanter agreed with a cautious nod. “Out of fuel’s out of fuel.”
The captain watched the status boards and said, “Tell the Soviet squadron leader to dump all their missiles and bombs and empty their guns completely. Annalise, scramble four Tomcats to escort them in.”
“Aye, skipper.” She dashed for the exit so fast that they almost didn’t notice her leave until she was gone.
But the captain knew—he didn’t even bother to look. “Sound general quarters.”
Galanter’s voice got stiff. “Aye, sir. Bos’n, sound general quarters.”
“General quarters, aye.” The bosun immediately went to his broadcast intercom, pierced the ship with an alert whistle, and sent the deceptively calm order booming through the two thousand airtight chambers on the carrier. “General quarters. General quarters. Man your battle stations. This is not a drill. Man your battle stations. This is no drill.”
Captain Ruszkowski didn’t wait for the stirring announcement to stop, because that would take several minutes. Throughout the ship, thousands of trained men and women were streaking toward their posts, all blood running hot with a thrill that inevitably comes from hearing those words over the intercom. No matter how awful or how dangerous, there was always the thrill. It was part and parcel of the voodoo that made things work on a military vessel.
Ruszkowski kept quiet just a few more seconds until he heard the distinct kksshhhhhhhoooooo of F-14s peeling off the flight deck in succession so quick it was scary. That was a good sound, and he started breathing again. “Scan for any vessels in a thousand-mile radius. I want to know if this is a fake.”
Compton turned in his chair. “Sir?”
“Go, Compton.”
“Russian wing commander says three bags full, sir. They’ll comply with dumping their arms and anything else you want.”
“Ask the squadron leader what kind of arresting gear he has, then tell him what we’ve got and see if they’re compatible. We’ll have to know if their tailhookers are up to speed or if we have to rig a barricade.”
Galanter straightened. “Should we tell them that? I mean, isn’t that classified?”
“Yeah, but I don’t really care. And signal our picket destroyer that they might have to go in after the MiGs if we can’t hook them and they have to ditch.”
“Soviet CAP leader says he’s willing to comply unconditionally on all counts, sir. He sounds pretty shook up.”
“Signal they have permission to land, Mr. Compton. Dave, let’s bring those pilots in.”
It had never in all the history of the universe been so hot. An eerie yellow light flashed on and off, picking up the roundness of tiny beads of perspiration on the woman’s ivory skin. Some of the beads caught on the ends of her long black eyelashes as she lay there with her eyes tightly shut. The glow was spasmodic, on, off, on, off.
Her eyes shot open. Her hands gnawed the edges of the mattress. Her back was suddenly stiff from sitting up so quickly, yet she had absolutely no memory of having sat up. Beneath her uniform, perspiration rolled down between her breasts, as though someone had dumped a beaker of glycerin over her shoulders.
“Don’t fire . . . shut down all systems . . . Vasska . . . Vasska!”
She was gasping. Several seconds thundered by under the terrible flash of the yellow light before her eyes focused on the delic
ate floral arrangement on her dresser.
“Yellow alert . . . yellow alert . . . ”
She turned her head, blinking tears from her eyes, and undone black hair moved on her shoulders, reminding her of who she was. She tried to catch at her identity as it slipped in and out of her mind, to draw it in, cling to it—
“Yellow alert . . . yellow alert . . . Counselor Troi, please report to the bridge immediately. Counselor Deanna Troi, report to the bridge please. Yellow alert . . . yellow alert . . . ”
Chapter Two
“FIRE PHASERS.”
Captain Picard’s precise enunciation gave the order a theatrical tenor. It was followed almost immediately by the thunder of weapons powering through the big ship. A slim, magisterial man of thrifty movement, Picard stood the deck without pacing as most would, watching the latest of a series of rather tedious scientific exercises.
In the corner of his eye he saw the yellow alert light flashing, and it reminded him that stations had been manned and any quick shifts in orbital integrity could be handled without surprise now. “Orbital status, Mr. LaForge?”
As he spoke, Picard crossed the topaz carpet to bridge center and glanced over the shoulder of Geordi LaForge, ignoring—through practice—the fact that the dark young man had a metal band over his eyes that made him appear blindfolded. There was something ironic and disconcerting—to humans—about trusting the steering of a gigantic ship to a blind man.
LaForge’s head moved, downward slightly and left—it was their only signal that visual tie-in to his brain was working at all. “An orbit this tight is tricky since gas giants have no true surface, sir, but we’re stable and holding. I guess the Federation’s going to get all the information it wants whether we like it or not.”
Picard moved quietly to the other side of LaForge and placed his hand on the young officer’s lounge. “When I want an editorial, I’ll ask for it, Lieutenant.”
LaForge stiffened. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
The captain imperiously guarded his own opinion. Though the huge new starship was supposedly on an exploratory mission, the Federation was dragging its feet in letting the Enterprise get on with it. The ship had yet to push into truly unexplored space, and Picard was annoyed by the giant gas planet turning on the room-sized viewscreen before him. All right, it was an anomaly. Yes, it was unique. Yes, it was large. But if the Federation Science Bureau wanted to study it, surely the planet wasn’t going anywhere. They needn’t take up an entire Galaxy-class ship to have a look at it.
“Mr. Riker, secure from yellow alert. Go to condition three.”
William Riker came to life up on the quarterdeck. “Condition three, aye, sir.” He started to look toward the tactical station, where the order would be funneled through, but at the last instant left it to the officer in charge, for his own gaze was fixed on Jean-Luc Picard.
The captain regarded his bridge and its people and their task with the stateliness of a bird on a bough. Not a bird of prey, though, this captain. This one could soar in any direction, whichever way duty demanded. Not a large man or even an imposing one—a task he left to his first officer—the captain was at times unobtrusive, the bird hiding in the foliage, watching, never seen until those great wings suddenly spread. Those around him knew this could happen at any moment, this sudden peeling off across the bridge panorama like a lean sky thing. Even in repose, his presence kept them alert.
I wish I could do that, Riker thought, a little wince crossing his broad features. He tried not to watch the captain while the captain was watching the bridge, but it was hypnotic. As usual, Riker’s back was hurting as he stood to starboard, too rigidly. He wished he could shake the habit of prancing, born of deep-seated little insecurities that nagged at him constantly as though to keep him in line. Later he always wished he hadn’t moved so punctiliously as he got from here to there. Horrible to risk the captain’s thinking he was being deliberately upstaged. Next selection: “First Officer on Parade.”
But worse . . . if the first officer appeared diffident. Wasn’t that worse? There was no middle ground, or at least Riker hadn’t found it. He wanted to be a bulwark, but not one the captain had to climb over.
It was tiring, pretending to be completely one with a commanding officer whom he simply didn’t know very well on a personal basis. Yet they faced the prospect of sharing the next few years at each other’s side. Could that be done on the plane of formality that had set itself up between them?
Riker tried to pace the bridge casually yet without appearing aimless. That was the tricky part. It actually hurt sometimes—his back, his legs, aching. Like now. If not done right, the movements became pompous and ambiguous. He would become victim to the plain fact that the first officer actually had conspicuously little to do on the bridge. He worried about that all the time. Good thing he generally had command of away teams; at least he had that to make him worthwhile.
Picard had it down. Quiet authority. Dependable not-quite presence. They could easily forget he was on the bridge at all. He would simply watch from his bough.
Riker forced himself to look away from the captain’s coin-relief profile before he was entirely mesmerized.
“Something wrong, Mr. Riker?”
Caught.
Riker turned and drew his mouth into a grin that must have looked forced—another mistake—and said, “Not at all, sir. Everything’s fine.” He felt his eyes squinting and didn’t want the grin to get out of hand, so he pursed his lips and pretended to be very interested in the tactical display.
Good—the captain was looking away. Relax, Riker. Down with one shoulder. Now the other. Good soldier.
A casual turn told him no one was looking at him. Everyone was busy with the giant.
A moment later he was hypnotized again, but this time it was not by the subdued presence of Captain Picard. Now the gas giant caught him, held him, cradled in its unparalleled blueness as it roiled before them on the wide ceiling-to-floor viewscreen.
Ah, that viewscreen. It was the only thing on this ship that truly conveyed the size of the vessel and its technological grandeur. Dominating the bridge, the screen was half a universe all by itself.
The other half was over Riker’s shoulder: the new Enterprise. Barely broken in, swan-elegant, she spread out behind him like the wings of the bird.
Birds. Everything’s birds all of a sudden, Riker thought, and he glanced at Jean-Luc Picard.
“Condition report, Mr. Data,” the captain requested then, directing his gaze to the primary science station aft of tactical.
Riker turned aft in time to see a slender humanoid straighten at the science post. The face was still startling, its doll-like pyrite sheen softened only by its sculpted expression. Data’s expression, when there was one, always carried a childlike naïveté that eased the severeness of his slicked-back hair and the cartoon colors of his skin. For the hundredth time, Riker involuntarily wondered why anybody smart enough to create an android so intricate was too stupid to paint its face the right color or put some tone on its lips. If his builders filled it with human data—pardon the pun—somewhere in the download must have been information that the palette of human skin types didn’t include chrome. It was as though they went out of the way to shape him like a human, then went even further out of the way to paste him with signs that said, “Hey, I’m an android!”
Data’s brushstroke brows lifted. “Readings coming in from phaser blast echoes now, sir. Absolutely lifeless—high concentrations of uncataloged chemical compounds, very compressed . . . extremely rare reactology, Captain. This information will prove valuable.”
“Is there a margin of safety to attempt probing through to the gas giant’s core?” Picard asked.
Data’s face was framed by the black mantle of the slenderizing one-piece flightsuit, its color picked up again by the breast panel’s mustard gold, a standard Starfleet color since the Big Bang. “A wide margin, sir. I recommend it.”
Riker pressed his arms to his si
des. There was something unreal about Data’s voice. More human than human, the words were rounded and spoken with an open throat, as though it was always working a little harder than necessary.
“He.” Not “it.” For the sake of the rest of the crew, think “he.” No sense rupturing the trust others might have by accidentally pointing out the fact that he’s an instrument, even if he is. Riker shook himself from his thoughts as he sensed Picard’s glance, and in that moment he collected the authority he needed to carry out the captain’s unspoken order.
He cleared his throat. “Increase phasers to full power. Let’s see what’s at the heart of this beauty.”
“It is beautiful, isn’t it? You don’t stumble on one of these every day,” Beverly Crusher commented. Folding her long arms, she sat on the bench just port of the counselor’s seat, exercising a ship’s surgeon’s traditional right to be on the bridge when she didn’t feel like being anywhere else. Dr. Crusher was yet another stroke of color against the bisque walls and carpet. Over her cobalt-and-black uniform her hair was a Cleopatra crown of pure terra cotta—and there was just something about a redhead. She was reedy and quick, smart and graceful, and inclined toward sensible shoes in spite of her narrow-boned loveliness. Riker liked her. So did the captain. Especially the captain.
“Yes,” Captain Picard murmured, using the conversation as an excuse to move a few steps closer to her, “and it’s twice the size of common gas giants. Fire phasers.”
The muted phhhiiiuuuuuu hummed through the ship again, and on the screen an energy bolt cut downward into the surfaceless swirl.
“Reading various concentrations of gas,” Data reported, “merging to liquid . . . compressing into solid masses in some areas . . . logging the compounds now, sir.”
“Excellent,” Picard responded. “I’m sure—”
The forward turbolift beside the captain’s ready-room door opened, and Deanna Troi flew out onto the bridge, so unlike herself that she drew all eyes. She was a wreck—about as opposite her usual demeanor as she could get without mud-wrestling first. Her hair, usually knotted up in a style so tight it made other people’s muscles ache, was a black mass, spilling over her shoulders and around her pearly cheeks. Her eyes, extra large with their touch of alienness, obsidian as eyes that looked out from a Greco-Roman fresco, were skewed by some terrible calamity. She was breathing hard. Had she run down every corridor?