ACT 2
EARLY EVENING, ABOARD THE USS FANTASY - COMMAND SECTION
“What am I supposed to be looking at?” Lt Cmmdr Leonard stared up at the thick column of the Computer Core shaft, slicing through transparent aluminium floor panels into the levels above.
Lt (JG) Hedrik pointed toward the first floor intersection. Here at the base of the core unit the structure was thicker, an intricate pipe work of shiny metals almost like a metallic tree trunk. The seams and rivets were all visible and quite intentional. They both knew that they had no purpose aside from aesthetics – or rather one of them believed that to be true.
“You remember how Mr Lirik told us that the search parties had deduced that much of the integrated structure has subtle meaning, often hidden into the design and architecture?” she tried to explain her reasoning before she got to the point. Leonard half nodded. “Well, he reported that some of the survivors who are arts-trained have noticed how certain apparently unassuming quirky aspects of the ship also have a hidden purpose.”
Leonard peered around the structure, trying to see if he could ascertain its supposedly ‘hidden’ function. The pipes were like exposed muscle tissue, some gathered together stretching in impossible directions, while others were like tangled roots at the very base. The structure didn’t start to even out until just below the first intersection, where all the pipes fell into a uniform circle of vertical trunking around the column and then disappeared behind a series of mismatched ring-like sections before emerging on the next level in its more conventional cylindrical transparent aluminium form.
Hedrik continued. “As I was working down here for the last few days, I thought this structure was weird enough in design to possibly contain a message. I was particularly intrigued as to why the sheath that had surrounded it had dropped into its floor housing when the Captain accessed the secure systems from engineering the other day. I felt sure the two events were connected.”
Leonard glanced at the precise circular gash in the floor surrounding the base where the sheath was presently housed.
“May I interject?” Leonard stated seriously. “This structure is in effect separate from the main design of the ship. The core column was constructed at the Daystrom Institute and is unique within the entire vessel.”
Hedrik held up a finger, smiling. “As are many of the structures, pieces of equipment and much of the architecture. Singularly quirky, and yet of a theme. And all integrated perfectly to function as one with the rest of the vessel.”
“So…” Leonard ushered her, a little impatiently. “Get on with it then, please. What does it do?”
“Presently,” she insisted on giving him the full story. “Many of the pipes each have a tiny, almost minute letter stamped onto them,” she said. “At first I thought them some kind of identification or batch or model code. But then I began thinking – why would a nonsensical facia to a computer core need such coding? After trying to make sense of the codes via ship’s documentation files, I then ran a random deciphering programme and found a pattern. The letters, when assembled together starting from the lowest point and progressing to the highest just under the ceiling, form a phrase.”
“Really?” Leonard was slavering for an answer. “What?”
Hedrik cleared her throat, adding to the drama. “On is under one, under one is neither under nor over, on is outer turned on, inner is then outer, all from under on one.”
Leonard nodded, expecting more. “I have to say that makes no sense to me – aside from being a riddle of some sort.”
“And a nonsensical one, at that,” Hedrik smiled walking to the opposite side of the structure and climbing carefully up onto it, “or at least that’s what I thought at first.”
Slowly, carefully, she hauled herself up, having to traverse around the outside as she went, finding the only foot and hand holds available.
“Do you see how the metal colours are different hues and textures? Call up the technical specification for this section of the core structure,” she pointed over to the wall-mounted computer interface.
Leonard stepped over to the far wall and did so.
“Now call up Metallurgical Analysis,” she beamed, climbing ever higher.
Leonard did so – this particular graphic showed all the individual metals in colours according to their type, and it formed a perfect colour chart from infrared to ultraviolet.
“See? It’s a rainbow,” Hedrik finally huffed her way up to the last few foot holes and she reached the highest level she could go, crouched just under the transparent flooring above. “So here I am… under one – under level one of the computer core. And I’m at the end of the rainbow – you know, as in the ship’s mantra, the words written under the number one on the signage on deck one.”
“You mean the ship’s motto,” Leonard corrected.
“If you say so. But the point is, look what we have here,” she joked, gesturing boldly to the three collars at the top that divided the lower section of the core from the section on the deck above. “Rings, three of them – so I thought maybe it’s the middle ring; as in neither over nor under.”
Leonard was looking at her like this was a far fetched idea getting slowly further away.
“So I used that high beam tricorder down there to scan this upper portion,” she beamed.
Leonard picked up the tricorder on the small shelf inset into the wall beside the display he’d used. He read the data with fascination. “It’s a series of levers of some kind, connected into the heart of the core itself.”
“I haven’t figured out its exact function yet,” she carefully scrambled down, jumping the last part to land in front of her superior. “Given my last endeavour with the computer core, I thought I should wait before proceeding.”
“Indeed,” Leonard remembered all too well the K’Tani holo programme. “That was quite a feat of logic.”
Hedrik shrugged. “If truth be known, I just chanced across the metallurgical analysis, saw the rainbow, put it together with the riddle and then after I’d fine-scanned the structure the rest fell into place.”
APNIANIA, OLD TOWN, ABOUT TWO HOURS INTO THE AWAY TEAM’S ALLOTTED RECON TIME
Lirik was deeply regretting his taking the travel car. Lost as he was, he realised from the varied lower buildings flashing past that he had descended into the burgeoning city that sprawled away from the main concentration of spaceport domes and into an area of more imposing architecture and dark, heavy building materials – it was clearly much older in design. Glancing back toward the domes he was surprised to see them further away than he had thought – he realised that in fact the smooth and probably anti-grav enhanced transport was deceptively fast and he was now many kilometres away.
He assumed that it would be just as easy to speed back, so relaxed and glanced up at the sky through the travel car’s transparent roof. It seemed the weather was changing for the better. Sunlight broke through clouds creating glare across the damp rooftops of the old city, though the tinted side windows prevented the passengers from being dazzled. The travel car slowed and twisted and turned along tracks several metres above the bustling streets below. Ahead, clumps of old buildings rose up, each a heady mix of spires, spikes and statues, each one with impossibly high slanting roofs, parapets and tiny balconies. Flags and banners were strewn on some, but nothing garish here. Suddenly the view was gone as the travel car plunged into a massive subterranean terminal with a vaulted ceiling made of richly coloured glass. Most people stood up to disembark, so Lirik joined them, stepping out onto a wide concourse and following the milling crowds toward the main exit.
Lirik breathed in the fresh air deeply, smelling the damp city all around him. Having been cooped up on the Fantasy for so long, Lirik had quite forgotten the simplicity of M-Class world life – whatever the strange smells were.
The Englishman followed the crowds up several flights of wide, shallow steps to ground level, passing through an indoor marbled plaza beneath a beautiful painted dome and exited through one of many arches onto the open street. The warmth of the sunlight was beginning to evaporate the surface water on the paving slabs. Huge, ancient granite buildings of exquisite grandiose design thrust up all around him. The streets were wide here, busy with traffic and hordes of people made their way to and fro. He felt himself shoved and bumped and glimpsed several balking at his Medusan emissions as they clashed against his shield, set to low level. Quickly Lirik adjusted the setting and moved on, following those unmistakable groups who could only be tourists.
Indeed, the Yeoman/Commander realised from the amount of image capturing going on and the occasional individual conspicuously dressed in ancient garb handing out fliers and freebies that he was heading into the old Capitol of all B’Det. It still housed a good deal of government and administrative organisations, but more it was a symbol of the heart of B’Det culture, and so the must-see destination for all visitors. As such, the area housed many museums, shops and eateries geared specifically for tourists, as well as the usual amount of chic boutiques, luxurious hotels and awesome public venues, new and old. From his briefing notes Lirik had learned that despite their traditionalism, B’Det people also loved to celebrate and had many national holidays in which to do so. Indeed there was a heady atmosphere of celebration from the vendors but underneath the facade, however, Lirik couldn’t help but notice the commerce in it all, particularly the more obvious tourist traps and opportunists wandering about and trying to engage in conversation.
He checked his timepiece – enough for a short excursion. First he sought out a public information terminal and shortly after understood enough about the transport network to be able to return to the dome on an even more express route than the one he’d taken.
Lirik joined the throngs making their way onto a set of moving walkways that headed off toward a space behind several particularly large buildings. Two young boys jostled their way past, the second flinching against the Yeoman’s shield.
“Ow!” the boy protested and stopped to glare up at Lirik, turning slightly green and apparently about to burst into tears. The Commander held his breath. Thankfully, the younger sibling returned and tugged his brother’s headdress and the two went running off.
Lirik breathed a sigh of relief. Presently, he passed through cool dark shadows between two monolithic edifices devoid of any decoration save a hundred tiny windows about half way up. Ahead, through the gap, all he could make out were the rooftops of some of the finest architecture he had seen all day. As he cleared the gap, so the walkway turned and slowed, running along the edge of a wide avenue. Everyone got off, Lirik followed suit, stepping onto a crunching sand and gravel surface. They ambled across the avenue toward a long line of thin, eight metre high flagpoles spaced apart at the top of a steep bank of worn away stone steps that led down to a large public square.
Lirik glanced left and right – the avenue stretched off as far as the eye could see. Thousands of people wandered in that slow, long-distance tourist pace either towards the steps that led down to the square or away from them. All about him, vendors of small craft items, foodstuffs and small, exotic caged creatures added to the air of excitement. More children were running about enjoying the smells and the game play while their parents appreciated the history and aesthetics of the city.
The square was constructed of ancient stone slabs and was about three hundred metres long on each side. Glancing around the Commander found several public information signs arranged at the top of the sweeping steps that abutted one side of the square: this was known as The Council Square, the oldest part of the city and its heart and soul. Huge stone and brick buildings, their support columns at odd angles and the roofs warped and drooping, surrounded the square on its three other sides, each a point of B’Det history and a place with many stories to tell. Tourists ambled around the centre of the square, or sat on benches around its perimeter, though most opted to squat on the now dry steps and take pictures or just sit and appreciate the old architecture. A steady stream of people passed out of or into the square via alleys and narrow streets between the old buildings or up and down the steps disturbing large flocks of small six legged birds scrapping about for food.
Suddenly, the sound of a massive explosion rang out from behind the other side of the square, echoing dramatically back and forth between the wide open space and startling Lirik into swearing in English out loud. As one, the birds shot up and away in a cacophony of flapping and squawking. Lirik glanced about – no one had paid any attention to him. There was a clattering and smashing sound like debris falling and clouds of dust billowed onto the square from the alleys. At this point, the crowds flew into a panic, running wildly about. Two distinct alarms sounded, along with a distant siren. Lirik gathered himself, holding his ground and surveying the scene as best he could.
A surge of people pushed hard from one of the alleys, sending the front group stumbling forward. There were people with cuts and bruises, but most were just in a panic, blindly running. Lirik didn’t get the impression there was any further danger, but heard shouts and screams coming from the far corner of the smoke-filling square – among them he could make out angry shouts rather than terrified crowds. Yet more distant sirens added to the cacophony.
Running through the crowds he saw rapid movement: two, no three individuals. Two of them carried banners; one became visible through the haze: even with his limited knowledge of B’Det he could interpret it as a protest banner about a weak government and the threat of the K’Tani. Lirik noticed the three individuals wore headgear that covered their faces and caused people to run away from them, terrified.
When the sirens got close, the protestors ditched their kit and scattered like rats from a flood. Lirik forced his legs to move, still slightly dazed by what had happened, and began to run parallel to the dispersing trio. He picked his prey – a short, stout male running hard but not moving as quickly as the other two. With the man firmly in his sights, Lirik pursued a short distance behind.
Minutes later Lirik sorely wished he’d kept in training over the last few years. If it hadn’t been for his pursuant deciding to slow to a sudden walk and casually meld with the heavy crowds, he’d never have kept up. He followed street after street and was intrigued to see the individual pass through several retail entrances, each time slightly altering his appearance.
Finally, the man ambled along at a steady pace, almost a cocksure swagger – he even stopped to buy several small items from a pleasure and refreshment booth and chat with the brash salesman. Shortly, he was on his way again and Lirik continued to follow at a distance, hoping he wouldn’t be travelling too much further.
Several blocks and several upward levels later, on a much quieter side street, the man suddenly ducked into a narrow alley. Lirik hesitated – then decided he would first stroll casually past to glimpse a view before following.
The stout man, however, was quicker and ready for him. The moment Lirik passed the corner of the alleyway he was grabbed by the scruff of his neck covering and roughly pulled into the alley, clever legs twisting under his own causing him to stumble heavily to the dirty wet floor. Before he had even fallen to his knees Lirik felt the unmistakable end of a thick cold weapon stuck into the back of his neck from behind.
“Get up. Slowly,” the voice said firmly. Lirik began to do so. “Eugh, what WAS that?” the man muttered and shook involuntarily, referring to Lirik’s ambient Medusan energy. He heard him swallow back the saliva. “No. Don’t’ turn around. And no sudden moves or I’ll kill you right now.”
Lirik nodded, noting that the man’s words implied he would kill him later, and allowed the assailant to guide him, with the gun now in his upper back, further into the dark alley. The rubbish was piled thick here, and there was fast indistinguishable movement in the deep shadows. A short way ahead the route was completely blocked and Lirik wondered if the man intended to execute him. But as they waded through the grime and discard of a major city Lirik noticed a dark metal doorway recessed into the left wall just ahead. He heard the man click something and the door slid grittily open – despite its apparent age it was clearly kept well oiled and operational. Lirik was shoved over the threshold and found himself at the top of a narrow metal staircase that sloped down two of five walls to some kind of intersection room in the basement level below. It was dank and dimly lit, the ageing brick walls covered in tresses of mossy slime. The man closed the door and pushed the butt of the weapon into Lirik’s spine to urge him forward. The footplates of the otherwise rusting staircase were wet and slippery, and as they walked down Lirik noticed the bolt fastenings wobbling precariously in their dusty old cement housings.
Footsteps rapidly approached. Lirik tensed as two men rushed into view from a side corridor, panting. Seeing Lirik they both drew weapons and pointed up at him.
“Who’s he?!” one shout-whispered to the man behind Lirik.
“He followed me,” Lirik’s captor said. “We should take him with us.”
“Are you crazy?” the other one said, more out of fear. “We should kill him and get the hell out of here.”
“We can’t kill him,” the captor said, forcing Lirik to move faster down the staircase, “we don’t know who he is.”
“I’m with him,” the first one said nodding to his mate, “it’s dangerous enough us making these daylight protests without someone who can identify us.”
“If we kill him,” Lirik’s captor insisted, “then we’ll probably have half the security forces out looking for us. No, we should take him to Hauruk. He’ll know what to do.”
The others grumbled, but seemed to listen – perhaps he was in charge, Lirik wondered. On reaching the bottom rung the first one stepped up to Lirik and pushed the end of his own hand weapon into the side of Lirik’s head.
“Who are you?” he demanded. Lirik returned the man’s hostile look – he was young, but his eyes told something of an unspoken horror, something that had matured him and caused him to be the person he was now. “Speak, or I WILL pull this trigger.”
His captor didn’t come to the rescue this time. “I am a friend,” Lirik said as controlled as he could. The youngster snarled.
“We’ll see,” the captor was still behind Lirik and pushed him into a darkened corner of the room. Here there was another doorway which the two assistants had to prize open. Behind was a set of archaic looking metal gates leading into a tiny elevator of some sort. Pulling the gates open, the dim overhead light of the elevator flickered weakly on.
Once all were inside the small space and the door and gates closed, Lirik finally faced his captor – but he hardly looked like a protestor. More like just a short, stout businessman. He activated the car which jerked and slowly moved off with much grinding of metal echoing in the travel tunnel around them.
“Euaghh….” the second one shuddered suddenly. “What IS that?”
His captor and the first one seemed equally uncomfortable with Lirik’s ambient Medusan effect in close proximity. He could have flexed it there and then, rendered them all unconscious or worse, but if these people were allied to the Resistance, then Lirik needed to go along as their prisoner until he had the opportunity to better assess the situation.
“Is it you?” the young, agitated one shoved the barrel of his gun roughly into the side of Lirik’s head again. Lirik just looked straight ahead, unmoving, and concentrated on shifting a little more of his energy field in the direction of the weapon. The metallic device conducted the Medusan energy crudely but effectively, causing the youngster to double over and wretch, then back off to the other side gagging to be sick. The two others pointed their weapons at him, but Lirik just stood quite still, returning their gaze.
The elevator descended several levels and then rattled along horizontally for many minutes, finally arriving in a similar room to the one they’d departed from. They exited up several flights of more stable stairs and out onto a slightly wider and cleaner alley overhung with many decrepit iron balconies, each adorned with a variety of junk, wraith-like plants, howling young and yapping pets. Row upon row of washing was strung up between the hundred or so balconies. It seemed they were in a poorer residential area of the old city.
With not a little shoving, Lirik was guided forward then up onto a stairwell in one of the tenements. They ascended eight winding flights, and Lirik was sweating and slowing from the exertion. Through another alleyway, and they passed abruptly into a busy street crammed with shack-like shops on either side of a dusty road jammed full with surface-based traffic. The stench of alien food and fuel was overwhelming, the noise near deafening.
Despite the vibrant, bewildering odour and pounding noise of the road, people were going about their every day lives, streaming past them in either direction. Lirik was conspicuous by his attire – most working class B’Det it seemed wore more muted, earthy tones, and there were more people in trousers and boots than there were robes and cassocks. He could have broken free even now, he realised, but that risked him blowing his cover – and not achieving his goal.
Several blocks further up the busy jostling road, parked in a long line of bashed up and old vehicles, an equally claptrap van of sorts awaited the three men and their hostage.
Lirik swallowed hard – he could wind up anywhere. But he now had little choice in the matter.
The side of the vehicle was already open, and a woman, face mostly covered, looked shocked as her three associates pushed Lirik inside. Lirik tripped and hit his head, tumbling over another occupant, so did not manage to sit upright before the other men had entered, the door had closed and they had pulled swiftly away.
As the vehicle rocked on the bumpy road, the Englishman now found himself gazing down the barrels of three additional weapons. Yet two more people sat in the forward driving ‘pod’.
“Who is this?” the woman asked in a superior, outraged tone.
“My name is Lirik,” the Yeoman broke his cover there and then in the hope that truth would prevail. “I’m from Federation Space.”
“Federation space?” the second man quizzed and exchanged glances with his comrades, each equally intrigued.
“From the other side of the Tholian wormhole,” the woman explained.
“He’s K’Tani,” the first man sneered. “I can smell the foul stench.”
“Oh really, “ Lirik commented wryly. “I thought that was your putrid breath.”
The youngster lunged forward but was held back by his associates. Lirik didn’t flinch but merely smiled. “For people involved in the Resistance you’re pretty badly organised,” he insulted them while also digging for confirmation of who they were. They exchanged looks again, but Lirik couldn’t read it right – there was surprise, insult, anger and curiosity on their faces.
“Why were you following me? Who are you working for?” the stout man asked. He seemed more together than the other males, more capable and clearly more direct with his questions. Moreover his enquiry was more than a hint of an open mind.
“Like I said, I’m from the other side of the Tholian wormhole – that no longer exists, in case you didn’t know,” Lirik added.
“Of course we know,” the woman snapped, possibly annoyed at being thought of as uninformed, Lirik hoped.
“Then you also know that most of my people are lost – captured or killed by the K’Tani during their invasion,” Lirik said with all the bitterness he could gather.
“That doesn’t exactly explain your presence in the Capitol of an independent state, surgically altered to appear like a native,” the man retorted ignoring Lirik’s emotive statement. Lirik nodded, conceding that fact. “So if what you say is true, why are you HERE? And why did you follow me?”
During the journey time to B’Det, Commodore Jackson had disclosed further details of the Captain’s orders concerning their mission. Should any of the group make contact with the Resistance, then they were to divulge only as much information as they felt necessary and even then were given permission to bend the truth somewhat.
“I am one of only a handful of survivors of the coup,” he lied. “We were lucky enough to escape the invasion, and in doing so we made contact with a former Resistance cell. They helped us, and we in turn agreed to help them by coming here. According to them, the B’Det cell went to ground shortly after the K’Tani invasion for fear of any former operatives being compromised. But then several days ago they received … a … a ‘ping’, but then nothing else. So we were asked to come here and re-establish contact.”
The stout man and the woman locked eyes, and then she leant in to his ear, cupping her hand across it. He responded in a similar way. The youngster, however, now had his weapon held in both hands, outstretched toward Lirik’s face. “That’s it, he MUST be K’Tani. I say we grease him before we find ourselves surrounded by the authorities.”
“That’s enough!” the stout man shouted.
The woman placed her hand gently on the youngster’s to get him to lower the weapon. “And if he’s telling the truth?” the woman asked logically.
The younger one shook, glancing nervously between the woman and Lirik. “He can’t be, it’s too implausible.”
“Nevertheless,” Lirik responded directly to him. “It is true.” Slowly, the younger man lowered his weapon. “Did you send the ping?” Lirik asked the woman directly.
She sighed, evading his question and addressing the younger man instead. “Even if he is K’Tani, wasting him won’t do us any good. Kept alive, he could be useful.”
“Are you the leader?” Lirik insisted.
“No questions,” she snapped and waved him to scoot back down and get comfortable. “Just don’t do anything stupid and you won’t be harmed. I’ll assume you’re telling the truth for now, but mind that grants you no privileges.”
“Thank you,” Lirik smiled gratefully.
“But mark my words,” she said in grave tones. “If it transpires that you are deceiving us, then my friend here will have his wish.”
“I wouldn’t count on anything less,” Lirik smiled and snuggled as best he could into the side of the van. The rear wheel connected with a sudden pothole and Lirik banged his head, causing his shield to spark.
“Here,” the woman threw a flat, grubby pillow across to him. “It’s a long ride.”
* * *
USS FANTASY, PURSER’S APARTMENTS
Hedrik stepped out of the turbolift into the oval shaped lobby and paused to drink in the elaborate decor. She crossed the plush foyer and up the few carpeted steps, through the outer set of glass doors and onto the marbled landing from which a longer staircase dropped down into the cavernous forward-most observation suite. It swept around the entire prow of the vessel, the outer hull essentially a long sweeping bank of uniform windows that angled vaguely up to the ceiling from the floor, and decreased in height gradually as they bled off port and starboard, occasionally broken by structural supports and serving and seating areas. Some distance off in each direction, the suite turned the blunt-prowed corner and peeled off either side of the vessel.
The vista of stars through the massive row of tinted glass panels that faced forward was spectacular, but it was almost as nothing compared to the stunning interior decoration. The wide panelled ceiling was painted in the Classic style, a dramatic border of freezes of bright and delicate colours. A huge fresco covered the main area directly overhead, but there were gradually smaller panels left and right, each one surrounded by intricate plaster work. The whole room appeared as if out of ancient Earth history. The intricately patterned but formal linear floor pattern consisted of a hundred shades of dark brown and honey onyx. Holding the immense ceiling at bay were delicately veined but thick, imposing marble pillars, champagne flecked with a feathering of toffee brown in colour, sitting on highly polished beige granite plinths.
In the middle of the huge central space, exactly between her raised position on the landing and the forward bank of windows some way ahead was a very long dining table surrounded by many high backed seats shaped in a slender arch. The table was covered in pure white linen that would have dazzled her had it not been fully laden with cascading centre pieces: golden candlesticks and amazing bouquets of cut flowers and foliage. The table was also bejewelled with a host of smaller ornamentation: platinum salvers of elaborately patterned eggs, wide gemstone bowls brimming with exotic fresh fruits, sparkling cut crystal glasses filigreed with gold, a service of delicate fine bone china and silver and gold handled cutlery. Even the starched napkins were embossed with richly embroidered metallic relief handiwork.
“Oh my…” Reb stepped up behind her and looked the Orion fully up and down. He drank in her appearance more out of genuine admiration than lustful thought. Hedrik read this from his expression and smiled; grateful he hadn’t been as crude as he normally was.
Hedrik was wearing her hair up, and had donned a simple black dress. With a plunging v-neck and a high bias cut across the thigh, it hugged her slender figure seductively and left little to the imagination. She wore matching black high heeled shoes and a full set of emerald and jet jewellery she’d found during one of her recent frequent forays into the many cabins of the Passenger Section in the dead of night; a matching set of bracelet, necklace and dangling earrings.
Reb meanwhile had customised a couple of discarded Starfleet uniform designs to create a casual outfit of green leather jacket, straw and blood orange shirt and ochre pants with ribbed cream panelling. He’d clearly also paid a visit to the newly opened Mall area of the ship where several passengers had set up shop – one of whom was a Chochoban hairdresser. Reb’s mane seemed more robust and healthy, and shone in neatly brushed back streaks and a tightly platted pony tail that dropped between his shoulder blades.
“Lieutenant, you look splendid,” Christian walked up the stairs from the main area below, genuinely impressed, and kissed her softly on her green cheek, making her blush a deep ivy around her neck. “Please, help yourself to a glass of champagne.”
“Champagne?” Hedrik was surprised – not just at the decadence of their surroundings but at the extravagant use of the newly up and running food replicators; food supplies were still strictly rationed, and energy usage not yet widely available outside of the main functions of the ship.
Christian dropped his shoulders and held a wagging finger up. “Now don’t think this is just some over-indulgence on my part. Not any of you,” he raised his voice, addressing the variously attired senior and junior officers about him. “As for all this,” he gestured at the surroundings and the table before them. “It’s a combination of hologram and replicated illusion. And I’m not just referring to the décor – but for that, I defer to Lieutenant Verakov, our recently appointed Head of Nutrition.”
The large Eastern European woman barrelled over from the sidelines and climbed the stairs to speak to everyone. She was dressed in traditional chef uniform, though it sported her Starfleet commbadge and two pips above it: one gold, one black with a gold outline.
“Although it is possible for the USS Fantasy’s replicators to simulate food and drink down to the last molecule, this ship’s replicator interface is not a standard design, and as far as we can tell it’s not been tested since its installation, so we need to check that the main food synthesising protocol files haven’t degraded. The best way to do this is by way of a tasting test.”
A dozen or so volunteer crewmen appeared from the shadows either side, each dressed in the smart black and white butlering uniform of the Purser’s Department. They began to hand out padds to each and every officer gathered. Verakov continued.
“These pads contain a full list of the foods that we’ve made available on the main system. You may try anything you wish, and as many or few items as you like. As officers, the Captain and I thought it fitting that we should test the food before inflicting it upon the rest of the crew and passengers, just in case anything needs adjusting.”
A general hubbub of mixed reaction followed, including not a few worried statements – clearly they’d misinterpreted her attempt at humour. Christian stepped forward again.
Christian raised his hands to calm the chatter. “Replicating waste into food is more sustainable than using raw material, and we cannot be certain how frequently we’ll be able to obtain fresh stocks. We intend to grow our own, but that will obviously take time to establish, and will be fairly limited in the number of foodstuffs we can produce. So, all of you, please engage your taste buds. None of this food or drink is harmful, although it is possible that some of it might not taste quite right. So be prepared. But most of all, I want this to be fun as well as productive – it’s the first real chance we’ve had to get to know one another socially. But first, before we eat, drink and enjoy ourselves, I’d like to ask you to raise your glasses in a toast… to absent friends.”
“To absent friends.”
* * *
B’DET
Lieutenants O’Hara and Souveson and Commodore Jackson all returned to the ship within 30 minutes of each other, each keen to report their various mission-specific findings.
At first, the Commodore assumed Lirik was just dragging his heels so she asked Souveson to begin the first debrief.
The young French Canadian had obtained a list of addresses spread out around the city centre, but she wasn’t even a quarter way through the list of names she’d been given to investigate. She made only a fleeting mention of some young man, shying away from telling the others what she truly felt for the moment. Rather, she would speak to the Commodore alone about it later, she’d decided.
O’Hara felt a little foolish reporting that she had lucked out, but explained how she had ended up exploring the city with another General. She tried to focus on aspects of their conversation that reflected common opinion on the subject of the K’Tani, and she gave a convincing and elaborate summary, despite Jackson’s constant tight-lipped scowl.
Jackson was growing increasingly impatient with Lirik’s continuing absence but was distracted for long enough to give her own lengthy and detailed report, an air of confidence about her as she realised she was the only one of the team to have made significant progress.
“Here,” she passed O’Hara the vial of White Temple, “get to work as soon as you can.”
“He’s late!” Jackson snapped for the umpteenth time, pacing around the small confines of their vessel’s saloon.
“Oh, for-!” O’Hara reacted annoyed, forgetter herself and disregarding protocol. “All we can do is wait, Sir,” she added quickly.
Ambassador Narli squeezed his way through the narrow doorway to join them. “I’ve been watching the newscasts. There was an incident earlier on in the old city, but according to the reports it was a minor protest and no-one was hurt. The city authorities say they have several men in custody undergoing questioning.”
“Could one of them be Lirik?” Souveson gasped, flushing red and worrying for a moment about her stand-offish colleague.
“Don’t you think the headline would be ‘Alien Impostor Captured’?!” O’Hara raised an eyebrow at the younger woman.
“I tend to agree,” Jackson said, somewhat calmer. “Besides, from what I’ve learned the B’Det government are jittery to the point of paranoia and fearful of appearing weak in the face of opposition to their policies regarding the Border Regions and the K’Tani. I wouldn’t be surprised if there had been no arrests.”
“Which still doesn’t answer the question, where is Lirik?” Narli stated and flopped into one of the low mounds of cushions, almost disappearing into its soft depths.
There was a moment of repressed amusement as his knees rose higher than his antennae and it broke the tension a little. He managed to haul himself up onto firmer cushions and returned a fake smile.
“You mentioned meeting someone,” O’Hara turned to the Canadian, trying to distract Jackson from her mithering. “Did they help in any way?”
“Yes,” the Commodore sneered sideways at the medic, “we’ve heard about O’Hara’s extensive and fascinating sightseeing jaunt around the capitol, why not hear about your little interlude.”
Souveson flushed red again and felt O’Hara tense up beside her. In a moment of clarity she decided she would indeed tell all, including her own insights.
“His name is Leflin. I don’t yet have much to tell in terms of detail. He says he’s a student, originally from the Border Regions, here on Apniania attending business college. He helped me out in the library and insisted on sharing a meal with me – wouldn’t leave me alone until I agreed. He was charming, in a brusque way, but clearly had an ulterior motive.”
“Don’t ‘yet…’?” Narli muttered.
“He insisted that I meet up with him later this evening.” Souveson swallowed and looked at Jackson, answering Narli’s utterance. “And actually… I think I should go, Sir.”
The Commodore’s jaw dropped open a little. “Well you’re not going! I may not be your Matriarch, but I am your superior officer and in command of this mission. Bad enough that one crewman is missing without you as well. Besides, I believe my lead with the girl Keylar and her General are the best chance we have of making contact with former Resistance Cell members and finding Lirik– we’ll focus on that.”
Souveson and O’Hara exchanged a look – the Canadian spoke up for them both. “The thing is, Commodore,” she sat forward, trying to sound as confident as possible. “I think there’s a chance he may actually be one of the Resistance members himself.”
“Really?” Jackson raised an eyebrow, not convinced. She saw the younger officer’s crestfallen expression. “You didn’t say so earlier.”
Souveson shook her head, not so much disappointed at her Commodore’s reaction but rather disagreeing with her judgement.
“I don’t doubt your enthusiasm for completing this mission,” Jackson continued, “and you’ve done very well considering your apprehension about being part of the away team. But from what you’ve said, he could also just as easily be just some hunk of alien that has the hots for you and is merely trying to vie for a night of wooing.”
The Lieutenant licked her lips. “Sir,” she rose to her full seated height. “With all due respect, I’m not stupid around men.” It surprised her colleagues and stunned Jackson into silence. “I grew up with nine brothers – I know what men are like. But that’s not the point. The point is that I was listening very carefully to everything he said. He’s not telling me the whole truth about himself, and although I can’t establish why for the time being, I am certain that he has an ulterior motive that has to do with our reason for being here.”
“How can you tell?” O’Hara asked, genuinely interested in her reasons and a little ashamed at her previous put-down.
“Yes,” Jackson adopted an even more superior tone, if that were possible. “How exactly did growing up in a Human male environment help you reach this conclusion about an alien male tens of thousands of light years from home who you have only known for a number of minutes?”
“It’s not just a hunch, Commodore,” the Lieutenant sounded older as she spoke her mind – like a child making an adult realise they’re growing up. “I specialised in behavioural phorensics in my final year at Starfleet Academy. And I came top of the class – you may have read my paper on the subject of involuntary post-memory resonance in the Borg, Lieutenant? It was published in the Starfleet Medical Lancet,” Souveson sounded a little haughty, but O’Hara realised it was more to get her point across. She shook her head blankly, half smiling at the revelation that an Academy cadet could be so honoured, especially one from the Security branch – and particularly this apparently unassuming French Canadian girl.
“Speaking freely, Sirs, I’d almost forgotten I retained those skills until I got talking to him,” Souveson continued, confiding in her superiors in an attempt to get them to understand where she was coming from. “You see, things have been so intense since the attack on Helub. In fact, ever since I graduated my life has been one long hectic episode. Since we came aboard the Fantasy, I… well, I think I’ve just been on autopilot, dealing with each event as it arose and never taking the time to step back and see the bigger picture or remember who I am. I agree, Commodore, I was petrified about coming on this mission – even moreso when you said we would be going about the place alone. So can you imagine my fear when suddenly, not yards from the seat of local government in some stuffy, official, high security records place this alien man starts… coming on to me?!”
Jackson gritted her teeth – Souveson was little more than a teenager. A fresher – a talented, energetic and determined graduate, but a rookie nonetheless. The French Canadian seemed as if she were about to cry.
“Go on,” Jackson prompted.
Souveson cleared her throat, finding her voice again. “The way he approached me – the things he said. I could tell it was more than coincidence, so I went along with it. I thought, as we passed out of the towers and into the lower levels of the port, that something sinister may lay in store for me. In fact, the only thing sinister was the strange smelling goo binding my lunch together. The conversation was bland, but perhaps because of that fact, I became totally relaxed. It was as if suddenly I was aware of who I was for the first time,” she had a far away look in her eyes, and a vague hint of a smile. “I was on a mission and my team were relying on me, and I had to do everything in my power, use all my skills and training to succeed. Commodore, it’s not exactly a developed skill, and I’m not trying to pretend to be something I’m not, but I learned from a Vulcan professor at the Academy. If I put my mind to it, concentrate with all my willpower on the task at hand, I can…read people… well, dare I say almost as well as a Betazoid. There were elements of his story that didn’t ring true. His deception, the way he displayed his lies to me – once I’d learned the pattern, and it was intricate, it all became obvious to me. Not in a threatening way, but certainly with a self arrogance that could only come with someone … shall I say, well-lived.”
There was a long pause, while Jackson gathered her thoughts. Then: “Do you feel he is someone you could trust?”
“Not yet, no,” she replied, as if that were obvious, and then added: “but the important thing is, I think he could be part of the resistance – or at least, have knowledge of it, or a keen interest in it.”
“If he purposefully approached you,” O’Hara considered, “then there’s every chance he could be the enemy. Indeed, if that were the case, then we could be being watched right now, as we speak.”
Narli sat forward: “I’ve been keeping a look out – although there is a lot of shielding in the structure of the dome, I can use the ship’s sensors without hindrance; there’s no sign of any surveillance that I can see.”
“And you already scanned us for tagging,” Souveson added to the medic.
“Besides,” Narli concluded, “if the enemy wanted us dead, then they’d have done it by now.”
O’Hara shook her head, thinking on. “Maybe it’s not us they’re after. Maybe they’re waiting for us to make contact with the resistance.”
“I don’t think so,” Jackson spoke with the confidence of rank, and its inherent tone of authority. “The B’Det are advanced, we know that, and I don’t think the K’Tani would risk open confrontation. That’s why they sent the Gene Clone.”
“So it’s one man we should be wary of,” Souveson stated.
“Or woman,” Jackson responded.
* * *
FANTASY
Hedrik sat alone at the farthest end of one of the Purser Apartment ‘wings’. She felt euphoric – not from the food or the synthahol, but from a feeling of belonging. For the first time, she was happily a part of a group, being herself, and having no fear of the kind of perils she had faced for most of her life. True, the K’Tani were a very real danger, but Hedrik would have faced them every time, given a choice.
Footsteps approached and Hedrik enjoyed the thought that it didn’t matter who it was, she wasn’t going to need to be on her guard. The excitement and rare anticipation gave her goose bumps.
“Ahem,” a polite cough, and to her keen senses clearly the Captain. Slight disappointment at not seeing who it was before hearing them. “May I join you, Lieutenant.”
“Please, Captain,” the Orion continued to stare straight out at the stars, “just for tonight, could you call me just by my name?”
She saw Christian’s vague reflection bow his head in the window. “Of course, Hedrik.” He sat down beside her and turned to look out of the window and try and see what she was seeing. “And just for this conversation, you can call me Slim.”
“Slim?” Hedrik faced him – he looked boyish tonight, despite his freshly replicated Captain’s uniform. In fact, Christian had been the only person present to come in uniform. All the rest of the attendees had jumped at the chance to wear one of the four luxury garments that had been supplied via the strict rationing of the newly operational clothing design replicator. Hedrik’s other choices had been a Bikini-wrap-shawl ensemble, a black leather twin set with matching shoes, and a fur coat, hat and boots.
“From the initials of my Christian names,” he smiled. Hedrik didn’t get the play on words.
“Which are…?” Hedrik sipped her champagne, still perfectly chilled thanks to the glass’ transparent aluminium micro-refrigeration system.
“Which are private,” Christian chinked glasses with her and took a sip. “So, Commander Leonard tells me you have made a discovery with the computer core.”
“Yes sir, though its exact function is still a mystery,” she answered.
Christian smiled at her involuntarily calling him ‘sir’ – she would be a fine officer, he was sure.
“I’m sure you’ll work it out,” he said encouragingly. She smiled in response, though there was no pride there. Christian felt a flutter in his belly at witnessing this beautiful young green skinned woman relax her guard. Now she seemed delicate, vulnerable, and Christian felt another flutter further down.
* * *
G’VORN SPRING
“Well,” Jackson sipped the glass of water she’d poured from the tap; it was brackish, but that was how a B’Det liked it. “If you’re absolutely sure.”
Souveson nodded emphatically. “Permission to speak freely?” she asked – the Commodore tipped her head. “I know it’s hard to trust someone so fresh out of the Academy – I’d probably do the same if I were in your position. But I assure you, this isn’t just a hunch. However, I’d be wrong not to admit that there’s a chance I could be wrong,”
The Commodore’s lips tightened, as if her body were preventing her from responding for fear of what she might say.
O’Hara gave her opinion: “It’s been nearly three hours since Lirik was due back, Commodore. If there’s a chance the Lieutenant’s meeting with Leflin could lead to his liberation, I’d say we go for it.”
The Commodore noticed that Narli was studying her, much like Lirik would – it was their way, reading people and absorbing every little detail. She wondered briefly what he thought – respect? Perhaps he thought her incapable or even incompetent. “Very well, you’ve convinced me,” she said quickly. “But you won’t go alone. I have to meet with Keylar soon, O’Hara, you go with Lieutenant Souveson.”
“Yes, Sir,” the medic was pleased, for more than one reason. She turned back to her initial analysis.
“How’s it going?” the Commodore asked.
“Surprisingly well,” O’Hara said confidently. “She’s very lucky. The drug looks quite similar to a number of chemical structures that form the basis of a particular type of biological weaponry used back home. If I’m right, it shouldn’t’ take much to develop a serum.”
* * *
B’DET BURBS
Lirik awoke from his drooling slumber in time to see the long stick prodding towards him.
“It’s okay,” he said, squinting into the artificial torch light pouring in from outside the vehicle and near blinding him. “I’m coming.”
“Just keep your distance, alien!” the wiry youth snapped through gritted teeth in a poor attempt to be quiet.
Slowly, Lirik clambered out of the vehicle and looked around. They had pulled into some kind of garage, sparsely equipped and covered in a thick layer of dust. He could hear traffic noises from not too far away outside. Lirik was guided – at stick length – through a door, up three flights of steep stairs, along a corridor and through a double set of security doors. This led the troupe into an empty room, presumably another building, Lirik thought while studying the contrasting architecture. The door to this room was unlocked and they passed out into a near pitch black corridor with a once-shiny floor. They continued in an l-shape direction before passing through a heavy fire door and onto a dimly lit, damp smelling stairwell that stretched up through dozens of levels and descended into darkness a short way below. A faint breeze carried the smell of damp wood and mouldy plaster so unique to ages old, long since abandoned buildings. The vague sound of flapping wings could be heard from high up in the rafters. Thankfully for Lirik’s unconditioned legs, their journey was downwards, though the Chief Purser of the Fantasy worried at the creaking – and in some cases excessive bowing – of the un-uniform steps as they trudged a dizzying forty flights into the cooler air of the subterranean levels.
Through another locked door, their hips aching from the cyclic motion of the descent, they then entered a narrow, arch-shaped tunnel, the roof made lower by dozens of thick cables all held precariously in place by primitive looking hooks. A chill but clean breeze swept past at a constant pace. The tunnel construction was warped, not at all in a straight line as if created long before such methods had been developed and refined, or perhaps indicating that the ground had shifted over time.
After a quarter hour, the corridor hit a cross-road and they continued left for another twenty minutes and then right for another three. They ducked through a hatch and had to crouch-walk their way into yet another stairwell. This was an even more ancient building, but made of huge slabs of stone – clearly built to last.
Four flights up, Lirik wondered if this was their usual route or merely a way of exhausting and disorienting him. Little did they realise that he only had to shut his eyes to ‘feel’ the position of the nearby sun with his Medusan energy – it was then just a matter of working out the speed and trajectory of the sun and the elapsed time in order to determine in which direction he had been taken.
Finally, the group passed through a locked doorway into a wide, t-junction. Left and right led past locked long-since empty offices to boarded windows about ten metres in each direction, the thin slits of light illuminating the swirling dust disturbed by their presence. Directly ahead, the corridor rapidly disappeared into darkness, though Lirik ‘saw’ in his mind the presence of two life forms some way ahead, behind a doorway with a stack of electric equipment on a table. They seemed to be huddled around this equipment – probably scanning them. Indeed, as Lirik focused his mind and looked around, he caught sight of the faint electromagnetic signal that was feeding and directing the micro-camera hidden in the fretwork of an aircon vent above them.
There was a double clicking sound, echoing between the empty walls, and the woman reached into her pocket, pulled out a small gadget and gave four clicks in response – some kind of fail-safe code for the day, probably. The corridor ahead then semi illuminated and the group all walked forward, Lirik unceremoniously shoved with the sharp-feeling end of the stick.
Despite the security scan, and coded signal, the two guards still came out with their weapons pointing at them. On seeing Lirik in the flesh, one fell back to the doorway and the other raised his weapon to firing level.
“Lower your weapon, this man is our prisoner,” the woman instructed haughtily.
The guard hesitated, but clearly took her orders without further question, though Lirik saw as they passed the anti-room that the other guard was informing others of their arrival through a small comms device.
Several paces later the corridor branched off in two directions, wooden panelled walls and faded patterned carpets hinting of once resplendent executive dwellings. They headed left and then right down another long corridor. Lirik felt the presence of more guards along the route behind closed doors, some masked by an energy field, though their movements gave them away. At last, they arrived in front of a set of double doors, which were opened as they approached. The guards inside waved them into the anti room and each of the group were scanned with handheld devices. Lirik’s signals gave off wild, random squeals and tweets, causing an amount of confusion and rapid conversation.
Lirik was jostled through into a second lobby of some kind; wallpaper stripped and peeling from the walls, plaster crumbling. A huge man here opened a thick door and they all passed through into a very large, blacked out room, and lit only by a single, almost pointlessly dim overhead light and a side lamp. Several pockets of people stood or sat around in the shadows, either fiddling with bits of equipment or discussing things in hushed whispers.
At the far end of the room, away from the light above them, the front edge of an antique desk was just visible. In the shadows behind, Lirik sensed a group of people – no, judging from the way the group were arranged there was one person in the centre surrounded by the others. As Lirik scanned left and right with his eyes, he noticed a group of people sitting in a side recess in front of what looked like a very sophisticated console, though it was currently inoperative or switched off.
The group who had brought him to this place peeled off left and right, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the room under the pathetically weak light. He heard the door close and lock behind him.
“Hello,” Lirik said as calmly as he could – almost tempted to add ‘I come in peace’.
“Whatever you are, you’ve come to Apniania at a very dangerous time,” a male voice came from the shadows behind the desk.
‘Don’t I know it!’ Lirik thought, but decided on a forward approach. “I trust that you are the person around here who might be able to give me some answers?”
“You’re in no position to be asking any questions!” the voice snapped. It was a youthful male voice, Lirik decided, a hint of sneering arrogance giving it away rather than any kind of pitch.
The Commander nodded in assent, waiting for what he assumed was his interrogation to begin.
“Vikras!” the man snapped. The woman who had led him and the group here walked out of shadow toward Lirik brandishing an odd looking device. He hoped it wasn’t meant for torture.
As the bleeping sounds started, Lirik felt no pain – indeed, it looked more like a scanner and the person he now knew to be Vikras waved it over and around him with gusto.
Finally she switched the device off and lowered it, and turned to the shadowed desk. “He’s not B’Det,” Vikras confirmed, “but he’s not K’Tani either. He looks to be Humane, but the readings aren’t quite right. He could be some kind of hybrid.”
“It’s, ah, pronounced ‘Hew-Man’, Miss Vikras,” Lirik corrected her politely. “And yes, as you indicate I am part Human and part Medusan – a race of non-corporeal energy based life forms. My name is Lirik. I come as a representative of the Resistance.”
There was a murmur of disquiet from a dozen or so people. Vikras frowned at him, and then passed her device to a waiting assistant before beginning a body search. As she plunged a hand into Lirik’s robes she pulled sharply back with a start. Her reaction caused several people to lunge forward and target their weapons at him.
“Don’t shoot!” Lirik said, startled, and raising his hands in supplication. “That’s the Medusan part of me,” he explained to a pained Vikras. “It’s not very pleasant to be near me, and even worse to actually touch me.”
“Aint that the truth!” the wiry guy hissed from the shadows.
“Unlike the shields used by your people, I have to wear mine all the time to protect others,” Lirik finished apologising. “I’m sorry that I startled you.”
This time, she nodded in confirmation, though she still appeared cautious. Still, it was a first step, Lirik thought.
“Look, I’ll start by offering you some good advice,” Lirik said confidently, hoping not to be silenced again. “In case you didn’t know, there’s a K’Tani Gene Clone on the loose-“
“Indeed,” the man interrupted, sounding a little amused. “That’s why we needed to bring you here.”
“Oh,” Lirik replied – not sure what he meant.
“My name is Hauruk,” the voice said. There was the sound of movement, and slowly a young man emerged from the shadows and walked up to face him under the dim light.
“Pleased to meet you,” Lirik nodded, though he chose not to offer his hand, as usual.
“Let’s get one thing absolutely clear, Mr Lirik,” he stepped a little closer, almost threatening. “We have absolutely nothing to do with the former Resistance group operating on B’Det. They were fools. Stupid idiots who didn’t know what they were doing, led by unpatriotic B’Det who would rather sell out to Qovakia than retain their national identity.”
Lirik was flabbergasted at the young man’s statement, and took a moment to absorb it. He also noticed that the body language of Vikras and a few others changed at this, perhaps intimating a difference of opinion. One other thing he had noticed – none of these people were over the age of 40.
“And just look at where their efforts have got us?” Hauruk continued ranting, his arms swinging about as he raised his voice. “On the brink of a civil war and the K’Tani at a safe distance pulling all the strings!” He whirled and sneered at Lirik. “And now… aliens arriving to further meddle in our affairs.”
Lirik shook his head – this was not expected. But then again, after a fashion he had completed the first part of the mission: make contact with the Resistance. In fact, from his point of view there was no difference between dealing with the former cell or this one – just as long as the flow of information and technology to the Resistance was maintained. Still, the “ping thing” as he’d come to think of it, was a bit of a mystery, and clearly there was some kind of animosity felt by Hauruk and the others. It begged a question.
“So, what has happened to the… former members of the Resistance cell?” Lirik asked quietly.
Hauruk dropped his arms, still raised from his wailing. He studied Lirik for a while, perhaps wondering if he should merit the question with a response.
“Some months ago a gene clone was successfully identified in the border regions. Although the contacts there managed to pass this information on they disappeared before they could convey any further details… my father being one of them. The Cell here on B’Det were fearful that they and their families would be in jeopardy, so executed a long rehearsed plan to disband,” he said bitterly. “I came in search of the Cell, and of revenge, but by then they had already informed the Resistance network of their intentions and ceased to function. Those who had acted alone changed identities and abandoned their families, moving far away so as not to put anyone at risk. Many who were able retired to the moons of Gorifrey to live out their days in blissful ignorance and false peace, having decided they’d done enough for their people,” the man walked back to his desk and perched on it. “Those whose activities were known to their families uprooted and relocated to the more distant border regions of F’Raalis and beyond.”
“But not you,” Lirik noted the obvious.
“No,” Hauruk said with suppressed anger. “I along with a number of other first generation resistors refused to abandon the fight. But then, several weeks ago, one of the original members of the resistance was murdered, quite horribly, the method used was clearly by someone trying to extract information. We assume that she had remained on Apniania to keep an eye out for us. We’re not sure if she was working alone, but there has been no contact from anyone else since. However, the fact we’re all still here leads me to conclude we haven’t been compromised.”
“Could she be the one to have sent the ‘ping’ then?” Lirik probed.
Hauruk shook his head. “I don’t know. But I do know this. We love our world more than we fear the K’Tani. A lot of good people have paid a very high price in the name of freedom and we won’t let their deaths be in vain. But of course, you wouldn’t understand that, being an outsider.”
“On the contrary,” Lirik smiled. “It’s just what I wanted to hear.”
* * *
THE GOOD SHIP ‘UITALI ARIDAY’, B’DET CENTRAL DOME
“Thank you for coming,” Keylar quickly brought Jackson into her mother’s boudoir. “I just hope she’ll listen to you.” In front of the mirror, her mother sat upright, brushing her thinning hair and staring emptily into her reflection.
“I proudly greet you,” Jackson said to the older woman, perhaps a little too like she was talking to an invalid, as she approached. If the woman had heard, she didn’t react.
“Mother, this is Tulana Yarid,” Keylar gently took the brush from her mother and placed it on the table, turning her to face the Commodore. “She’s here to help.”
“That’s right,” Jackson smiled warmly as Keylar’s mother looked ahead, still unresponsive. “Keylar, give me a moment alone with her, will you?”
The young woman hesitated, then nodded and retreated from the room. Jackson was playing the part of a Matriarch and that carried a lot of authority, even on another Matriarch’s ship.
Once they were alone, Jackson stepped over to the old woman staring blankly into the shadows of her too-warm and musty smelling room. Carefully the Commodore pulled out the miniature hypo spray and applied it to the B’Det’s hand.
Jackson stepped back. A brief moment passed, and it looked like the colour was returning to the Matriarch’s cheeks. Her expressionless face melted into a frown, it was as if a veil lifted from her consciousness. But she seemed confused as to who Jackson was and why she was there. She glared into the Commodore’s face.
“Tulana...” she whispered.
The Commodore thought she was like a different person – younger, more imposing. The Matriarch rose and approached her, then, with incredible speed, she belted the Commodore across the face, sending her sprawling backward, knocking a large ornament crashing to the floor before she fell onto the bed, groaning from the impact.
The Matriarch lunged toward her dressing table, reached inside a drawer and pulled out a weapon. She aimed, and was about to fire when Keylar – who had been waiting outside the door - burst in because of the noise, saw what was happening and intervened.
“Mother!” Keylar cried, knocking her arm to one side. The laser blast missed Jackson’s head by several centimetres, ripping into the soft bedding. Keylar retrieved the weapon and restrained her confused mother all too late, but thankful that Jackson was still alive, if shaken.
The Commodore rubbed her chin, luckily she’d absorbed the blow – a reaction born of much play-fighting in her youth with her own two boisterous sons. But it still smarted.
“Leave us, my daughter,” the Matriarch ordered her with a stronger, more powerful voice. She was a changed woman. “I need to speak with… this woman alone.” It was a put-down of the worst kind to refer to another Matriarch in her presence in such a way.
Keylar turned to Jackson, still sprawled on the bed, who swallowed, but nodded in agreement. There could be any number of reasons for the Matriarch’s reaction, but she hoped they were for all the right ones.
The younger woman, still holding the weapon, hesitated. “But Mother, I-“
“Go!” her Mother snapped. Keylar stood her ground, trying to ascertain what was going on.
“Don’t worry Keylar,” Jackson said kindly, “she won’t hurt me again.”
The young woman shook her head in disapproval but departed the room and left the two large women alone.
* * *
SEVERAL HUNDRED METRES ABOVE
The bar was sited near the apex of the docking dome, just beneath the solid roof that became the foundations of the mini-city comprising the administrative towers and spires above. The place was surprisingly smoky and heaving with all kinds of people, though unusually for an interstellar space port, the majority here were B’Det. It was also incredibly noisy with much laughter and shouting – though there was no music for entertainment. As modern trend dictated, vibrations, varying in form rippled across the bar, giving the two women in disguise a little thrill as it caressed their nervous systems and lower seated portions.
“Congratulations on your promotion, by the way,” O’Hara leant into Souveson’s head to be heard above the din, then pulled away smiling and sipped her Wood Juice cocktail.
“You too,” Souveson replied loudly, and aped the nurse, sipping on her own choice of beverage – a tall, fizzy drink that appeared like pink champagne but tasted more like orange flavoured chocolate and was called, quite inappropriately, Old Feg. “Though I have to say, I think the Captain’s faith in me is slightly unfounded.”
“What?” O’Hara balked.
“I said-“ Souveson replied.
“Yes, I heard you,” O’Hara levelled a look of disappointment at her colleague. “But you’re so wrong.”
“Am I?” Souveson asked, a little melancholy. “If there had been other security or tactical specialists present, I wouldn’t have even made it onto the Bridge, let alone be asked to be a head of department.” She laughed at the statement, still not quite believing that was her role.
“But you were… you are the only one,” O’Hara reminded her – realising perhaps it wasn’t a great affirmation of her abilities.
Souveson shrugged. “Mon dieu,” she sighed. “I was nearly always top of my class at the Academy. Out here, I feel… I just feel that I can’t cut it.”
“Bull!” O’Hara raised her voice a little, and then gave fleeting looks around to make sure she hadn’t attracted unnecessary attention. “Okay, I admit, on the face of it… well, you’re just a kid really.”
“Gee, thanks,” the younger Lieutenant reacted.
“What I’m saying is,” O’Hara patted the back of Souveson’s hand, “you’ve had a lot of growing up to do. But in spite of everything, you’ve coped remarkably well.”
The French Canadian nodded slowly, her thoughts turning suddenly to 48 Platoon – they were a group of Starfleet Marines who had graduated at the same time as her. They had been shipped out to the front line of the Dominion war, just a day after the passing out parade. It had taken them three years to graduate fast-track through the Academy. Then it had taken them five months to travel to the remote Vyandon system to rendezvous with an allied assault group assembling there.
It took just two minutes to destroy all of their lives, their drop ship blasted into smithereens by the waiting Jemm Hadar as they fell through the upper atmosphere with the others in the first wave.
“But I still lack the experience,” Souveson confided in her new friend. “How can I possibly lead an entire department – of complete novices, I might add – whilst also advising the Captain and Commodore on tactical issues, and all that after such a short period of service?”
“I wouldn’t call them ALL complete novices, Souveson. Besides, we’re all taking on more responsibility than we would have chosen for ourselves,” O’Hara reminded her, instinctively beginning to tire of Souveson’s belly-aching.
“I know that Commander Struckchev doesn’t approve of me,” she muttered.
“Who gives a fff-flying Ferengi what that man thinks!” O’Hara quipped, feeling a little tipsy and parking her drink until she felt more level headed. “And I think, madam, that you’ve already proven you are more than qualified.”
Souveson looked up at the green-eyed medic, admiring her Amazon features, at the back of her mind thinking that even O’Hara looked more like a Security Chief than she did.
“The Captain and Commodore both have faith in you,” the red-head concluded. “As do I and most of the other senior officers. Surely that’s enough?”
Souveson wasn’t totally convinced, although she was flattered. “But Struckchev’s not alone – I’ve seen the way people look at me, Lirik and Narli to name but two. Be honest, surely even you thought it wrong for a rookie like me to be promoted up to Lieutenant AND given a Departmental Head role?”
The nurse smiled warmly, shaking her head. “It’s not important what I might have thought – my only concern was of your medical history, and your state of mind. We all have a role to play, Lieutenant. I have mine and you have yours.”
“That doesn’t exactly answer my question,” Souveson corrected her, sipping more of her drink and looking around for Leflin through the heaving masses. “You were in the ‘Marines. Don’t tell me you didn’t share the opinions of your fellow soldiers about us Starfleet Security types?”
O’Hara chuckled. “You don’t know the half of it. But I’ve grown since then. I won’t knock the Marines and what being a part of the service gave to me, but I also have to say that leaving them and joining Starfleet Medical was the best thing I ever did. We all have shells to break out of. Medic to medical doctor, Academy graduate to tactical officer. You get me?”
Souveson smiled and nodded. “Thanks.”
“Hey! Hey, Urahu!” Chell’s voice above the hubbub, O’Hara thought suddenly, from somewhere to their left.
“Oh, no…” the nurse whispered.
“Your friend?” Souveson asked quickly.
O’Hara smiled at the man and slightly nodded in response to her colleague as the tall B’Det pushed his way through the crowd to reach them.
“General Chell,” O’Hara bowed slightly. “I duly greet thee. This is my mistress, the lady Cresna,” the Lieutenant realised she’d pronounced the name wrong as soon as she’d said it. The look on Souveson’s face hid desperation.
“Mistress Cresthna,” Chell uttered perfectly, and correctly – and a little sinisterly – and bowed. “It is an honour. You have a fine General in Urahu.”
Souveson regarded him, he looked a little like her Uncle Simon, the Ice Hockey champion from Winnipeg.
“She is proficient enough,” the French Canadian admitted loftily, causing an amused kick under the table from her red headed cohort.
“Perhaps your Mistress would permit me the honour of showing you both more of our fair city?” Chell beamed eagerly and sat, uninvited, pulling his chair close to O’Hara and invading her body space. The Nurse leaned back out of his way slightly.
Souveson smiled in her sweetest, most feminine way, and then spotted Leflin in the far distance as the crowd parted. He hadn’t seen her yet, but the security officer lightly tapped O’Hara several times with her foot under the table as a prompt to ditch her newfound friend sharpish.
“Thank you, Chell, but my Mistress is here on business,” O’Hara involuntarily shifted in her chair as he moved even closer to her.
“Oh, but I insist,” he smiled as wide as possible to O’Hara, who looked at Souveson in a pleading way. The French Canadian, however, had become ashen and was staring down at something. O’Hara followed her gaze and saw that Chell had a small hand weapon and it was pointing directly into…her belly.
Both Starfleet officers realised they couldn’t challenge him, it was too risky – both to their own personal safety and to the mission; they could become exposed if involved in some kind of conflict. Both were totally cognisant of the foetus mere millimetres from the weapon, compelling them both to remain calm. No one in the heaving, busy crowds noticed their peril. Desperate, Souveson flicked her eyes over to Leflin’s direction a few times. Still he hadn’t seen them, and now was ambling off to one side of the huge bar.
O’Hara looked down into Chell’s warm eyes. “Well,” she said half smiling. “If you put it like that.”
As they both stood, Chell pulled Souveson in closer, so in effect the two women became the shield to his weapon.
“No smart moves,” he whispered in their ears. “If you try anything, I promise I will kill you.”
“In front of all these people?” O’Hara pushed her luck.
“I have nothing to lose,” Chell hissed viciously. “Now, move!”
“We’ll be missed,” Souveson said quickly. “And they’ll come looking for us.”
Chell chuckled in a most disconcerting way and poked the Canadian hard in the back with his weapon.
As they made their way out of the bar toward the wide balcony overlooking the dome below, Souveson allowed herself a glance over her shoulder. Leflin was still in her line of sight, apparently still searching for them. She cursed his lazy eyes, and as if in response, he suddenly flicked his head towards her the split second that she passed out of his line of vision and out of the bar, through a row of arches and into the milling crowds on the walkway outside. Her heart skipped a beat – it was possible he may have seen her. The moment was the briefest imaginable. Would he follow…?”
Souveson slowed her pace, but it only caused Chell to propel her forward with the end of his gun. O’Hara glanced down at the younger Lieutenant, wondering why she had become uncooperative. Perhaps it was her intention to make a stand here, she wondered.
“I said no funny business Cresthna, Cresna or whatever your name really is. Now keep moving,” Chell whispered harshly. “Over there. That blue travel car.”
Through the ambling threads of people they saw a shifty looking man, also wearing the apparel of a General, waiting impatiently beside the rail at the edge of the balcony. The wide concourse circled the uppermost part of the parking dome, clinging to the underneath of it’s top most flying buttresses – parked on the other side of the rail, beside a small access gate was an anti-grav transport, looking much like a mini-submarine, all gleaming red, black and chrome, its side door and top mounted pilot’s turret open in waiting.
As they picked their way through the socialising B’Det and other life forms, Souveson felt sure that Leflin would suddenly come to their rescue. But as she watched the other General open the gate she turned her body and looked back toward the bar just to be sure. Leflin was once again nowhere in sight, damn him.
O’Hara stepped over the centimetre chasm between the walkway and the car, seeing down to the bottom of the main dome floor, misty in the distance. Souveson reluctantly followed, and as she ducked into the vehicle and glanced back one final time finally she saw Leflin’s face through the crowd. He was looking all around, so she decided on a direct approach and launched back toward the door that Chell was about to enter.
Before she’d even lifted her arm and opened her mouth, Chell had planted his own huge hand across her face and shoved her violently back inside the vehicle. He and the other General quickly looked around to make sure no-one had taken a special interest, and then Chell climbed in after them, sealing the door behind him.
The other General climbed cat-like up and across the top of the car’s smooth metallic blue surface, precariously close to sliding over the other side and plunging to his death, but at the last moment angled himself into the driver’s pulpit with practised ease, closing the domed view port over his head. He disengaged the docking clamp and dropped the vehicle into a vertical descent at not too slow a speed, then nudged rudely into one of the main traffic lanes heading out of the dome.
O’Hara gulped from the sudden motion and grabbed onto Souveson to stop herself from being tumbled about.
“Here,” the younger officer helped her back into the leather seat as the ship levelled.
“No talking,” Chell grunted angrily, thrusting his weapon between them.
* * *
USS FANTASY
“Engineer’s Log, Supplemental. The Senior Staff met earlier today to discuss Lt Hedrik’s discovery in detail. Given that we still have several days’ wait before the Away Team’s scheduled return, it was decided we should go ahead and activate the mechanism attached to the computer core. The Fantasy has travelled back into the neutral corridor to conduct the test. It’s our hope that it may lead us to unlocking access to the Hidden Decks.”
“Bridge to Computer Core,” the Captain glanced across at Commander Struckchev who nodded his readiness. “All stations report ready, are you all set?”
*
On the Command Section, below and forward of the yacht, Leonard waited at the base of the core’s column along with Kluless and Karless who the Captain had sent along for insurance against errant holograms. The Klingons looked intimidating in their warrior garb and evoked a strong, spicy, masculine aroma borne of manhood and little else.
“Are you ready?” he asked up to Hedrik, poised precariously on the top of the elaborate lower core section, just beneath the ceiling and embracing the middle ring as if hugging a huge metallic tree trunk. She nodded, a little afraid.
Leonard tapped his Commbadge. “We’re good to go, Captain.”
“Then proceed, Commander,” Christian’s voice came across the small device.
Hedrik placed her hands on the metal and applied pressure, turning it with her body weight. It slid grittily as tight metal on old lubricant only can. It didn’t go far – about four inches before an audible click was heard. It wouldn’t budge any further.
There was a short hiatus. “I think that’s as far as it will go, Sir,” Hedrik informed Leonard. The German was frowning at his Tricorder – there was no apparent action following the trigger. He checked the displays on the walls behind him – no sign of change to the computer access parameters that he could see.
*
On the Bridge, however, the Captain noticed immediately that his armrests had been replaced with a different set of holo-generated lcars commands. The configuration was totally unfamiliar.
“Status report,” Christian asked Struckchev, while still staring at the armrest controls trying to interpret what each key might be.
“All decks reporting in, Sir,” Struckchev scrolled through the computer-interpreted responses as fast as he could. “No change reported anywhere.”
“Captain,” Professor Karnak spoke from above – she had got out of her seat and joined Mr Madison at Tactical. “If I’m reading the core functional code correctly, then I believe that whatever the device does, the system is waiting for final confirmation from the commanding officer before activating.”
Christian glanced down at the panel again. “I see,” he gestured to the armrests. “These are new control panels, they materialised not a moment ago.”
“Then that must be your next course of action,” the Professor prompted a tad rudely.
“But which one to press?” Christian hoped he would be able to find out. “Computer, please identify the control configuration for the armrest panels currently on the commanding officer’s chair here,” he barked.
The computer warbled then spoke briefly. “Unable to comply. No configuration on file.”
“Then can you tell me what any of the keys may do?” Christian asked again.
“No information on file,” the computer reiterated – almost elusively.
The Captain turned to look up at the Professor. “Can you interpret the holomatrix? Identify what the keys are?”
The Human Vulcan shook her head just once, analysing the data on her screens above and around her. “Such data is limited to the physical manifestation of the controls only.”
“Computer,” Christian spoke as diplomatically as he could – like it would eek the information out of the vast memory. “What commands do the consoles control?”
“No information on file,” the computer answered hollowly.
“Well that’s a lie,” Struckchev muttered out loud.
“Even so, we can’t waste time debating with the computer. Clearly the panel is for the CO’s sole use. I think it’s safe to take the risk and try a button or two, see what happens,” he said a little over-enthusiastically. His staff reacted accordingly. “I doubt the controls will be anything that harms the ship or its crew.”
“Do you think that’s wise, Captain?” Madison chipped in over his shoulder.
Christian raised an eyebrow – but it was fair comment. “Risk is everything, Lieutenant,” he said as confidently as he could. “Though let’s hope none of these are for self-destruct.”
The joke was received as well as a Betazed wedding party on Vulcan – causing an increase in the level of apprehension on deck one. For once he missed the presence of Lirik and Narli, who would have appreciated the dark humour. He started to do eeny meeny in his head but then decided he wanted to press the green key marked 027.
In the moment it took for the Captain to press his finger on the panel, Christian’s world suddenly turned upside down, such was the extent of the instant motion.
From Madison and Karnak’s point of view, they heard a swish and then saw the top of Christian’s head instantly disappear below the console in front of them as if he were suddenly ducking down in reaction to some unseen attack.
Out of the corner of his right eye, Struckchev saw the Captain dropping rapidly beneath the deck. By the time he turned his head toward the Captain’s chair, he saw only that both man and seat had been swallowed by the ship, a large hole in its place which instantly re-sealed with a sharp clunking action. Another command chair immediately materialised where the original had been.
“Captain!” Struckchev heard Cally Warnerburg shriek from the engineering station on the opposite side to him, thrusting a hand out instinctively, though well out of reach and far too late to catch him.
*
Christian felt the full force of a high intensity gravity field pulling at his body as he shot down the narrow tube, barely sitting in the seat that went before and below him. A heartbeat ago he’d pressed the key, and now, before he could recall what happened next, there was light and a ‘shtoom!’ sound and then the full brunt of a cushioning force field in front of him, knocking the wind from his lungs and squeezing at his facial features. Despite the disorientation, he realised he must have activated some kind of escape chute. But to where?
His eyes bulged and extremities felt full with blood, such was the force of momentum colliding with the invisible protective energy field. His stomach caught up a second later, and his eyes instinctively clamped tight shut. As he fought to breath normally again, he forced his eyes to crack open. There was light, and vague objects, blurred by the wetness of his eyes. As the force field diminished his eyes gradually grew accustomed to his new surroundings. He was sitting in the middle of what looked like a mini-Bridge – perhaps an emergency Bridge, he wondered – and he’d accessed some kind of quick route to get to it.
But then, the greyness that had been the view through the shuttered forward windows split apart and the small vessel he now realised he was on bolted forward out into space, accelerating once clear of the ship to what looked to his experienced eye like half impulse power.
Christian, still feeling sick and a little dizzy and not a little winded, rose from his chair and staggered down the two steps to what could only be the Helm and flopped into the flimsy feeling tight mesh and aluminium seat, appraising himself of the controls as he did – it was a standard Federation configuration, circa 10 years old, but still fully functional. He halted the vessel’s onward motion, cancelling the alert status. Eyeballing that all systems were in the green, (including, he noted, a full tank of deuterium, pristine dilithium crystals, four charged energy banks of type VII phasers and several magazines of micro-torpedoes), he turned the ship sharply to face back along its former heading. There, a good few dozen kilometres from him, he could just make out the distinctive elongated black shape that was the Fantasy. The communications panel on the helm station was winking at him. He hit the channel open command.
“- the Fantasy to Captain, come in!” it was Struckchev’s voice, excited, if the Captain didn’t know better, hailing on all frequencies. “Captain, are you reading us?!”
Christian tapped the short range hail and responded. “This is he, Commander.” He’d have a word about breaching communications protocol later.
“Are you alright, Sir?!” the Commander asked, more concerned with his pre-empting of the crew’s reaction should he have to take command than he actually was about the Captain’s health.
“A little shaken, but I’m okay,” Christian responded and began laying in a return course. “I’m returning to you now – I presume this vessel has the ability to auto-dock.” A moment later, he worked out the auto-dock sequence and fed it to the controls.
“Sir!” it was Leonard’s voice, breathy and excited. “We were right! We’ve done it!”
The diverse implications of their discovery hadn’t quite hit the Captain yet.
“Command Systems have just re-booted. Not all access has been granted, but much more functionality has become available. Sir, we’re seeing… my goodness, several additional decks, plus dozens of systems previously unavailable, unknown or off-line.”
“And this vessel?” Christian asked.
“You’re in what the computer identifies as the Captain’s Personal Launch.”
“Really? Well, as I’m here I might as well take a look around.”
The bridge was tiny, though a little bigger than that of a runabout. Either side of the view screen on the angled walls were two single occupant escape pods. His own station was flanked by two others either side (Tactical and Ops to port, Engineering and Science to starboard), and there were three support stations to the rear, in between two single doors presumably leading aft. Each of the flanking space-saving stations consisted of a recessed console with side panels and additional overhead controls. The main slightly concave ceiling was low, by Starfleet standards, and the Captain noted that there were neatly housed storage and access compartments littered both above and below his feet.
Taking the port doorway Christian was confronted with a short, narrow, slightly curved corridor ending abruptly in another single door. Three bunks were squeezed into the inner wall to his left, whereas the right wall contained more storage, including six full sets of standard Starfleet weapons circa 10 years previous. [A ‘set’ of Standard weapons comprising a pocket phaser unit, a phaser pistol, and a phaser rifle – ed]
Passing through the next door, another corridor curved further round toward yet another door. Here, to his left were EVA suit lockers and more storage, to his right three sole occupancy lifepods and a low, circular airlock capable of multiple configuration docking.
The next door opened onto a compact engine room area at the small vessel’s rear, almost as large as the bridge. He noted that there was an area akin to a compact science lab to one side of the warp core and on the other, an area for larger equipment clamped to the walls and ceiling. Christian couldn’t resist looking over the engine controls and realised that the Launch was not only highly compact and custom built, but quite a powerful little vessel to boot, easily on a par with a Runabout.
Christian’s circular route took him forward through the starboard door into another curved corridor which almost mirrored the other. Here there were three more lifepods, but instead of an airlock there was an impressive array of sensor equipment. The inner wall comprised a medical bay, customisable to hold two casualties it seemed.
The Captain was feeling relaxed as he walked to the next doorway; however it didn’t open as he approached. He casually reached for the control panel, but as the door slid open he was suddenly standing before a six foot shiny black droid with glowing red eyes, causing him to cry out and stagger back. The droid tilted its head, looking at him curiously. Christian immediately noticed this was unlike any of the other mechanised units that had been discovered so far. Aside from its size (it nearly reached the ceiling) it was clad with armour plating and carried two impressive pulsar weapons housed in neat compartments in each thigh. The droid took two mechanised steps toward him.
“Halt!” Christian shouted – and the droid complied immediately. The Captain swallowed with relief. “State your designation.”
“Personal Protector Droid S1/H,” the droid had a low, tinny voice, monotone and threatening by design, “assigned to serve the Captain of the SS Fantasy now USS Fantasy.”
“That’s me,” Christian stood to his full height and approached the droid, grateful that command protocols had been disseminated throughout the vessel including to this imposing powerful droid. “How long have you been aboard?”
There was a moment of hesitation while the droid sought the correct memory file. “I have no recollection beyond activation 470 seconds ago.”
“Ah, about when I activated the console,” Christian muttered to himself, realising that the droid was yet another pristine accessory that the previous owner had constructed. “Power down and wait here for further instructions.”
There was a faint sound as the mechanism shut down, and the droid’s eyes dimmed to a low glow. Christian walked slowly around the droid and through to the next section of the ship. Here, there was a one person transporter that seemed to double up as a sonic shower. Beside it there was a replicator unit. The outer hull was made up of several banks of consoles – back up units and sub-processors. Sure enough, the next door led back to the Bridge.
Christian sat back into the centre chair watching the viewscreen as the small ship approached the lower part of the raised ‘turret’ levels that made up the top of the Fantasy’s Command Yacht. A thin slit opened and he saw briefly inside of its docking bay before the vessel rotated and reversed into the darkened space.
The bay doors slid shut and the helm’s displays showed the ship had successfully docked, then powered down to standby. The Captain headed back to the airlock. But his finger poised over the access command, thoughts of the spider creature that had tried to bind him filling his head. This was one of the decks Bel’s people hadn’t been able to access, presumably, so there was a possibility of spider creatures here. Thinking the better of it, he returned to the bridge and looked up at the part of the ceiling where his command chair had presumably entered.
“Computer,” he asked, “is it possible to get back to the Main Bridge of the USS Fantasy directly from this location?”
“Affirmative,” the computer replied.
“Then… make it so,” the Captain rarely used such clichés in front of the crew. However, he was surprised to find himself dematerialising and reappearing on the Executive Transporter in the corridor behind the Yacht’s bridge.
* * *
ACT 3