Star Trek Prometheus - in the Heart of Chaos

by Christian Humberg

  “We won’t know if we don’t try, son.” Brossal scrambled to his feet—a little shaky but determined—took Hiskaath by the hand, and walked forward towards the flames and the fence behind them.

  * * *

  There was indeed one Kranaal left. Just one, because the rest had been crippled by the exploding workshops. One of the small passenger transporters had been impaled by a piece of debris through its roof; the metal rotors the Kranaals relied on in order to fly had melted from the heat of the conflagration. Just one was left standing. It was parked at the back of the station-owned landing pad.

  In front of it stood a man, shooting at anyone and anything that came close to him.

  Mounim ak Hazzoh had obviously lost his mind. The once proud face of the algae cultivator was covered in sweat, his eyes darting around. His lips were trembling, just like his shoulders. Only his arms with the black energy weapon moved purposefully.

  “Come here then!” Mounim shouted. His once low and steady voice broke with every other syllable. “Come on, if you dare! Traitors! Enemies of the spheres! Come and get what you deserve!”

  The handful of remaining escapees were driven by fear. Panic fueled them as they darted out of the shadows of the burning workshops toward this one last Kranaal. From the cover of the impaled transporter, Brossal could see them: stumbling, crying, pleading. And once again he felt as if hands reached out from the shadows, dragging some people back.

  Did he just imagine that? It had to be an illusion.

  He could also see Mounim, indiscriminately shooting at fleeing people without questions, without warning, without mercy.

  Twitching bodies on the floor. Neighbors, dragging themselves forwards, bleeding. They looked around and were stunned, while the last remaining spark of life dissipated. Reason died on the cobbles of the harbor, and madness laughed at it.

  “Anyone else?” Mounim shouted, shooting into the night air in celebration. Madness had taken over once and for all. “Was that it? No more who have come to betray the sphere? Or is there still anyone here refusing to save home? Come here, if you dare. The Kranaal is already on autopilot, the course has been plotted. All you need to do is climb in—if you can make it.”

  We’re done, Brossal thought. But then he figured that they had been done for weeks. And nothing would change if he didn’t act now.

  “I’m here,” he shouted, and he handed Alyys to Hisk, who looked at him in utter confusion as he left the cover of the destroyed Kranaal. “Here, Moun. Do you recognize me?”

  Mounim obviously hadn’t expected any more people and winced. But then he realized who was talking to him, and a broad smile appeared on his feverish and confused face. “Bross!” He laughed, half snorting. “Didn’t I tell you that you needed to smarten up?”

  “You did indeed,” Brossal answered calmly—no matter what, keep talking, don’t panic, don’t get excited—and took two more slow, steady steps toward his colleague. “I remember it well.”

  “And you’re still here?” Incredulity and mockery made Mounim’s voice sound shrill. To him, Brossal was the biggest fool ever, that much was obvious. Bewildered, he shook his head. “You still haven’t understood anything, my friend, have you?”

  “Oh, but I have, Moun. I understand perfectly well.”

  “You do?” Again, Mounim fired into the air. Every single shot shook Brossal to the core. With every report, Brossal imagined the energy discharge would hit Alyys or Hisk. He had to resist the urge to flee. Whatever it takes. I’m doing all that’s left for me to do. I’m hoping.

  “Doesn’t look like it, Bross.” Mounim spoke with feigned regret. “Doesn’t look like it at all, you know?” He aimed the black energy weapon right at Brossal.

  But Brossal continued his slow, cautious, calm approach. “You think?”

  Another snort. “Don’t you?”

  Now! Brossal knew instinctively that this was the moment of his final chance. The algae cultivator tensed his muscles, launching himself forward and knocking Mounim over. Panting, both men fell to the ground, Mounim’s head striking the stone pier with a hollow thud. The energy gun fired, but Brossal managed to grab the barrel and turn it away. Anywhere but in his direction.

  Mounim now had a gaping head wound that was bleeding profusely. He writhed, kicked, and hit Brossal like a wild animal.

  But Brossal had always been strong. He managed to wrench the weapon from Mounim’s grasp, although he didn’t get a proper grip on it. It fell from his hands, sliding away and disappearing into the darkness, out of sight.

  Suddenly, Mounim’s fingers dug into his face, fingernails of one hand scratching his cheeks, fingertips of the other trying to squash his eyes. Screaming in pain, Brossal punched Mounim in the abdomen and then grabbed at his opponent’s wrists, yanking at them with all his might to get the digits away from his face. Once he was successful in that, Brossal tried to deliver another punch, but Mounim was faster. Brossal felt Mounim’s thigh press against his hip and his hand press against his shoulder, pushing him down onto his back.

  Suddenly, Mounim was on top, knees pressing onto Brossal’s thighs. Grinning, Mounim held a razor-sharp piece of debris, waving it near Brossal’s neck. “It’s the end of your journey, old friend.” Blood continued to run down Mounim’s cheek from his head wound, and Kharanto’s fires burned behind him. “Give Kynn my regards when you see her.” With these words, he lifted the makeshift weapon over his head, intending to plunge it into Brossal’s chest.

  But he suddenly winced, froze, and fell sideways. Motionless, he lay on the stone floor next to Brossal, who stared in disbelief. Mounim’s eyes were wide open, but there wasn’t any life left in them.

  He turned his head and saw the reason. Less than five steps away stood Alyys with the energy weapon in her tiny hands.

  “Aly.” Brossal scrambled to his feet, running towards her. A horror even greater than his apprehension at what his people had become, even more intense than his overwhelming fear of death, had gripped him. He sensed that more than just an insane colleague had died just now. Much more. “Aly, no…”

  But the child barely noticed his presence. Her eyes were feverish and empty, her strength almost gone. Without paying attention, she dropped the gun.

  “Aly.” Brossal began to sob. Repeatedly, he stroked her head with his hand. She didn’t respond. “Aly, where… where’s your brother?”

  “Gone.” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.

  He hesitated. “What do you mean, gone? Where is he?”

  She looked at him. Her smile was a mad mirror of her illness. The strange glow in her eyes went right through him.

  “He’s with the Son, Father,” she whispered, half proud and half feverish. “With the Son of the Ancient Reds. Iad has awakened. Aren’t you happy at all?”

  Again, Brossal was horror-stricken. “Hisk!” he shouted, pressing one child against him, looking for the other. “Hisk!”

  But there was no one else there—only the two of them, the dead, and their old home going up in flames.

  Brossal ak Ghantur searched for his first-born until the sun rose above the ocean. That was when he realized that he had lost him to the shadows. Maybe even weeks ago. Not everything you believed you saw was an illusion. And good intentions weren’t good deeds by a long margin.

  Grabbing his daughter, the algae cultivator climbed into the Kranaal and took off toward the sun, the offshore station, and an uncertain future.

  18

  NOVEMBER 29, 2385

  U.S.S. Prometheus, near the Taurus Dark Cloud

  Confusion, fear, fury, pain… Spock encountered these and other emotions in Geron Barai’s turbulent mind when he placed his long fingers on the Betazoid’s face. The younger man’s mind was in complete disarray. He was in a state of constant agitation, although there were no external impulses to cause it.

  But something is making him ill. Spock closed his eyes, and his fingertips moved gently while he deepened the mind-meld between himself and Bara
i.

  The doctor still lay on the bed in his dimly lit quarters, shifting restlessly and moaning quietly. Spock sat next to him on the edge of the bed.

  He believed he knew what to look for. The Son’s psychoactive radiation contaminated his victims’ thoughts similar to the manner in which radioactivity affected the body. Long after the actual onslaught on the mind was over, disharmonious echoes of the unfathomable hunger for violence continued to reverberate.

  Spock had freed his mind from this poisonous and glowing residue during meditation sessions by isolating each and every thought fragment that stood for fear or fury. It had been an arduous task. He was uncertain as to the efficacy of his being able to do the same for Barai’s mind. But Counselor Courmont had requested his aid, and he intended to at least make the attempt.

  Cautiously, Spock advanced into the chaos of Barai’s thoughts. As a trained telepath, the doctor could have put up strong barriers against him. But the Son’s mental vortex had torn down his resistance. A kaleidoscope of horrific images flitted about his thoughtscape: the red glowing eye-lasers of menacingly approaching Borg… the shimmering, drop-shaped spaceships of the Tzenkethi… the long, deadly fall of an Andorian woman looking curiously like Commander zh’Thiin… a sneering Doctor Calloway.

  Had he been prone to giving up easily, he probably would have withdrawn from Barai’s soul after a quick glance, discouraged. But Spock had always taken pride in his patience. Take heart, Doctor, he projected reassuringly into the chaos. I will aid you in returning to yourself.

  * * *

  “According to our calculations, we’re approaching the outer regions of the dark cloud,” ak Namur reported. “Dropping out of slipstream in three… two… one. Exit.”

  In awe, Richard Adams watched the blue shimmering tunnel that had taken the Prometheus two hundred light years across the Alpha Quadrant with immense speed collapse. The ship’s computer initiated an automated deceleration routine as the sensors would only function reliably in normal space. Nobody wanted to risk hurtling into an asteroid field or another stellar obstacle waiting at their destination.

  “ Prometheus answering all stop,” ak Namur said soon after.

  “All stations, report,” Adams said.

  “No damage reported,” Chell said from the engineering station. “All systems are go.”

  “No traceable energy signatures,” Roaas said from tactical.

  “Affirmative,” said Winter, cycling through the standard frequencies at the comm station. “No communication on any of the standard frequencies.”

  “Sounds as if we’re all alone out here,” Adams said. “Lieutenant ak Namur, could you confirm our position?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re in the outer regions of the Taurus Dark Cloud.”

  “Which, evidently, deserves its name.” The captain gazed at the large screen, which displayed nothing but blackness.

  “This is an optical phenomenon, Captain,” Mendon spoke up behind him. “The high density of complex molecules absorbs the starlight from beyond the cloud.”

  Adams turned to face the Benzite. “Thank you, Commander. I know what dark clouds are.” He smiled mildly at his science officer to reassure him that he appreciated the disclosure of information, nonetheless. Focusing his attention back on the screen, the captain continued: “I’d rather know if there really is a zone of chaotic energy somewhere around here, Mr. Mendon. Is this the right place, or has someone on Memory Alpha misinterpreted some obscure data?”

  “One moment, sir.” Tense silence fell over the bridge for several seconds, until Mendon spoke up again. “Captain, I’m indeed picking up a radiation zone similar to that around Iad. It’s about one light year away and… it’s enormous.”

  “On screen,” Adams said.

  “Switching to multi-spectral view to make the zone visible.” The image on the bridge screen changed as Mendon spoke; strictly speaking, only the spectrum of the sensor readings changed. The blackness disappeared and was replaced by gray space dotted with dark spots that represented stars. Right in the center was a gigantic cloud-like accumulation of energy. It reminded Adams of a huge storm front, a mountain of clouds building up on a humid summer night on Earth. The edges of the radiation zone frayed, and lightning flickered deep inside it.

  “Simulating visual spectrum,” Mendon said. The gray space turned black again, but this time the stars remained visible, just like the cloud. It was a billowing, permanently changing, and multicolored flickering zone in the core of the dark cloud. Fields emitting polaron, tetryon, verteron, and other ultraviolet radiations formed and disappeared continuously. The incoming quantities of data were so large that the sensor readings scrolled with unbelievable speed down the side of the screen.

  “Looks like a gate into chaos,” Sarita Carson mumbled at ops.

  Adams had to agree with her. The zone indeed made a disconcerting impression. “How big is this… this cloud?”

  “The visible diameter is twenty light years,” Mendon replied. “I have no data indicating its depth.”

  Nervously, the captain wiped his chin with one hand. Given half a choice, he would have stayed well away from this location. But they had a mission. “Commander Mendon, based on the data we have gathered above Iad: could the Prometheus withstand this zone?”

  “Let me run a few simulations, Captain.”

  Adams glanced over his shoulder at the science officer, nodding. “All right. In the meantime, we’ll approach the edge of the chaos zone. Lieutenant ak Namur, plot a course to the periphery of the phenomenon, warp nine point five.”

  “Aye, sir.” The Renao’s fingers danced across the navigation console, and then Adams observed the more familiar image translation on the viewscreen of the stars

  stretching as the Prometheus went to warp.

  * * *

  “There’s a remaining risk, sir.” Jenna Kirk shook her head in frustration. “I never thought I’d say this, but we could use the Bortas right now. Strictly speaking, we could do with its deflector dish and on-board computer. The three systems of the Prometheus might not be enough. If the spontaneous fluctuation rate of the radiation zone remains the same, we’ll be all right. If the chaos increases inside the zone, our three computer cores might be unable to cope.”

  “Without the adaptive radiation filter we’re in danger of being exposed to probably lethal doses of highly damaging radiation,” Mendon added.

  Adams nodded. “Which means that we have to advance very carefully, keeping a close eye on our environment.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mendon said.

  They sat in the large conference room, while the Prometheus sped towards the chaos zone. Mendon had successfully finished his simulations, and Kirk had added data from her readings. The result was at best disillusioning, at worst frightening.

  Adams turned to the deputy chief medical officer who sat to his left. “Doctor Calloway, I want you and your team on standby so you can treat various radiation afflictions quickly.”

  “Understood, Captain,” the brunette woman answered. “I’d like to point out though that sickbay is still understaffed. If the entire crew suffered from multiple radiation disorders, we wouldn’t be able to cope.”

  “It won’t come to that,” the captain said. “As soon as we see signs of grave problems with the adaptive radiation filter, we will withdraw. Just in case, I will reassign some personnel from security to assist you.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Make sure that all three medical bays are equally staffed. We may not be able to conduct ship-to-ship transport once we have entered the chaos zone with the separated Prometheus sections.”

  “I will divide personnel up accordingly,” Calloway said.

  “Very well,” said Adams. “Let’s talk about the scenario that we’re hopefully going to experience—that we can enter the zone unharmed and encounter beings matching the description of the White Guardian. How do we establish contact with them?” Again, he looked at Calloway. “Doctor, are any
of our telepaths fit for duty again?”

  “Our Vulcan crewmembers are making good progress. The Napean, Deltan, and Betazoid, however, are still in critical condition.”

  “Captain,” Ambassador Spock spoke up at the other end of the table. “My experience with the Son and similar beings is unmatched. It is only logical that I should attempt to establish contact.”

  “Considering your last attempt, I’d like to avoid sending you out again,” Adams replied. “You almost went mad.”

  “As you said, Captain—almost. My mind remains healthy. I was also able to retrieve some very important clues as to the nature of the Son.” The ambassador gazed at Adams knowingly. “In addition, I believe the White Guardian to be much less aggressive than the Son of the Ancient Reds, whose mind is damaged and ill.”

  “As you said, Ambassador—you believe.”

  “I would call it a calculated probability.”

  Adams sighed. “I don’t like it, but you’re right—you’re our best chance to get in touch with these beings. But I would like to have Ensign Winter attempt to find a less risky method of communication. Perhaps you could assist him, Ambassador?”

  “I would be glad to.”

  “Excellent.” Adams gazed at his officers. “Anything else we need to consider?”

  Roaas, sitting to his right, looked thoughtful. “Captain, I’ve been wondering whether we shouldn’t leave the majority of the crew behind outside the zone. The Prometheus is highly automated. Even separated, ten people per section would be enough to operate the ship. Why should we risk a hundred and forty-four crewmembers going mad? We could leave some security personnel and all scientists, civilians, and stand-in crews behind in shuttlecraft. If all goes well, we retrieve them as soon as we leave the chaos zone. However, if all doesn’t go well… I’d say the fewer lunatics running through the corridors the better.”