EP 12 "SHIP’S LOGS"
PROLOGUE
“Computer: access your Master System Progamme, authorisation Alpha-223, Lambda-873, Epsilon-903; audio only.”
“Master System accessed, please state your Personal Command Code to continue.”
“47951/Charlie0401064.”
“Secure audio interface enabled, full access granted.”
“Computer, disable any security tracking programmes, there must be no record of these following instructions.”
“Working…”
“Computer, access the ship’s data storage and retrieval system and open the master log entry preferences.”
“Preferences accessed.”
“Create and enable a level 9 covert duplication programme, authorisation Omega2323006.”
“Please select a secure password for your programme.”
“Password is: Dius Fidius.”
“Password confirmed, programme now running. Please state which logs you wish to filter.”
“Select them all, Computer. Every last one of them.”
*
The USS Fantasy cut silently through wasteland space in the far reaches of Nhori Chua Lh’Anhna territory, a black silhouette slipping between the stars. As requested by the dogmatic and well-armed Plaart, worshippers of and humanoid servants to the Nhori Chua Lh’Anhna, the former passenger liner travelled at a steady Warp 2 – no more, no less, in order to demonstrate reverence to their deity as they passed through the hallowed territory. It meant their current journey time would be much longer than necessary, but being the shortest and most direct route to their destination, the distant Carifoura League of Star Systems, it was also the quickest even at this snail’s pace, and therefore unavoidable.
If there was any deviation from the strict course provided by the Plaart or from the compulsory constant speed, ‘the full might of the Nhori Chua Lh’Anhna’ would be ‘unleashed upon them’, or so the Plaart had grandly threatened.
Personal accounts provided by the more widely travelled of the Qovakians among the Fantasy’s passenger and crew compliment confirmed that the Nhori Chua Lh’Anhna were in fact massive space-dwelling creatures formed of partially ionised, semi-corporeal energy that had to this day never exhibited any sign of sentience, let alone aggression. Looking much like enormous glowing jellyfish their nature appeared to be to commune, travel somewhere else within their province, commune again, and move on to commune once more elsewhere in a never ending nomadic existence of travelling and joining. Only very occasionally one of their number would disappear during a communion, and just as often a new one would appear, though not necessarily at the same event.
The real threat to the Fantasy was therefore posed by the fanatical Plaart
who revered their masters from a not unimpressive fleet of many hundreds of powerful ships. The city-sized sickle-shaped ships of shining silvery steel stalked their Gods from a safe distance as the huge entities roamed from place to place in a wholly random fashion. Each Plaart ‘vessel’ housed cathedral-like congregational viewing platforms in order that the faithful could worship the Nhori Chua Lh’Anhna from a spectacular viewpoint, though just as many spent an obsessive amount of time in the thousands of solitary prayer booths positioned behind a plethora of varying sensor devices on the outer hull, each dutifully scanning the life forms in every conceivable fashion, tracking them in an eternal cycle of veneration.
Well over half of each vessel was assigned to both running the ship and providing the millions of Plaart on board with enough food and other resources to exist comfortably. Most of the rest of the ship was turned over to accommodation, though every vessel additionally carried several squadrons of heavily armed scouting fighter craft that sequentially patrolled the perimeters of their expanse, swiftly intercepting any unwary visitors to their holy realm.
As a result of the constraints upon their crossing, the passengers and crew of the USS Fantasy had found time in which to take stock and reflect upon recent events.
CAPTAIN’S OFFICE, DECK TWO, COMMAND YACHT, 1645 HOURS SHIP TIME; TWENTY SEVEN HOURS OUT FROM B’DET SPACE
Captain Simeon Christian stood in the middle of his wide, wood-panelled office, all internal lights extinguished. The passing warp streaks of starlight outside filtered through the many squares of shield-tinted windows to his sides and behind, casting a barely discernable pulsing, ghostly light on the interior, making everything seem vague and almost monochrome.
He wore his traditional ‘Lanatsurka’ garb: loose fitting trousers and heavy, quilted tunic of matching pale green, tightly woven cotton tied at the waist with a sash of crimson satin. Since taking up the meditative martial art when studying at Command school, the Captain had developed the obsessive habit of practicing his base stances and elementary form during time he set aside for recording Log entries; he found it helped him to focus on details and used it as a challenge to coordinate mind, body and voice at the same time.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and stepped into a standard opening stance, gathering his thoughts.
“Computer, access Captain’s Log.”
The computer paused for a fraction of a second, and then acknowledged him with a rapid short and long beep. Christian raised an eyebrow – despite much of the USS Fantasy being older than his grandmother, all LCARS access whether by touchpad or by voice was routinely at FTL speed; so even on this old vessel there should never be such a pause. He mentally filed it for later investigation.
The Captain gracefully swept half his limbs in an arc, turning his torso with them as he turned on the ball of his right foot, flowing to an abrupt halt in a forward combat stance facing the rear of the office.
“New Entry. Begin recording.”
Two short beeps confirmed – in good time on this occasion. Christian snapped to an upright stance then step-turned softly into a wide meditative stance, facing forward once again.
“Captain’s Log, Stardate 51393.3. Since the Away Team’s safe return three days ago, the mood of the ship’s company has noticeably lifted; the volunteer crew appears more efficient and is performing duties with a sense of pride rather than just a sense of duty, and even the most disruptive passengers seem less determined than usual.
“Amid the higher spirits there is also much rumour and speculation as to why the Away Team’s transport, the B’Det vessel called Marack Day, remained docked with us for so long, in effect holding us at the very edge of potentially hostile space before it headed back into its native territory and allowed us to continue on our not insignificant passage to the safer climes of the Carifoura League of Star Systems.
“As agreed with Commodore Jackson, full details of what transpired during the mission to the B’Det home world have been restricted to the command crew, senior officers and select few others. Whilst I am confident our medical screenings and interviews have found no evidence of another K’Tani agent aboard, allegiances among some Outer Zone races are still in a state of flux following the recent K’Tani invasion of Qovakia, and as we have people from those same races in our midst, among both passengers and volunteer crew, it is prudent for us to remain… reserved in sharing any detail that could be potentially useful to the enemy and its supporters.
“At the request of the Commodore, the identities of the B’Det entourage who accompanied the Away Team were kept equally confidential, known only to myself, Commander Struckchev, those of the Away Team and, in agreement with Commodore Jackson, a highly encrypted part of Captain Bel’s memory files; a risky strategy storing it within the computer core’s memory files, but essential for the Bel programme’s holocharacter who advises us on matters of the former Resistance – she is after all currently the only link between the Fantasy and its potential allies in the Outer Zone.
“Keeping Matriarch Deviga’s family hidden for the duration of the debrief was made possible by utilising the secure VIP Quarters on the recently discovered ‘hidden’ Alpha Deck, accessible only to the Fantasy’s commanding officer and designates. Their presence for these few precious days has helped increase our knowledge of the current B’Det political and social arena, and provided us with important technological information on the most advanced weaponry in use throughout the known Outer Zone. This invaluable knowledge will go some way to shore-up our defences against such armaments, and aid us in adapting our own limited ordnance so they are more effective against the K’Tani; though this ship and its untried crew are a very long way from being battle-ready.
“By now the Matriarch Deviga will be well on her way back to her official residence on Ch’Lera in the heart of the B’Det empire; the authorities on the home world Apniania will have had time to thoroughly investigate the massacre of Deviga’s crew (at the hand of the K’Tani assassins), and the shoot out in the Temple that took place several days ago. Subsequently, the Temple’s Arbitrator and her Disciples, thankfully sympathisers to our cause, will have been interviewed, disclosing the previously agreed cover story that the Matriach’s closest employee, her General, Mulcro, went crazy in the Temple, (where recording devices are mercifully not permitted), shooting another General dead and injuring several others before running off, wounded and desperate, with the Matriarch and her daughter held at gunpoint. This news should lead the authorities to conclude that the kidnap occurred after having murdered his fellow crewmates in some mad frenzy.
“At least, that’s what we hope they believe – and given their denial on the subject of the K’Tani threat, for the establishment it is also the more palatable explanation for public consumption.
“Shortly after leaving us yesterday, Matriarch Deviga will have attempted to contact her ship, and it being impounded she would have been automatically re-directed to the B’Det’s interior security service. She will claim she knows nothing about the fate of her crew and act suitably distressed when she hears the grim news – not a difficult task given the reality of her enormous personal loss. She will then convey her part of the agreed story about the fire fight in the Temple, the ‘kidnap’ of herself and her daughter Keylar by General Mulcro, their flight to the edge of their territory and their eventual, thankful release into the hands of a passing merchant for hire, an out-of-work General in his rented ship, the Marack Day – played of course by the Matriarch’s estranged husband, Chell, who is now Morico, thanks to an expert facial restructure, dermal realignment and DNA re-sequencing by our CMO, Lieutenant O’Hara – helped in part, it has to be noted, by Wheezy, Lieutenant Karnak and the Matriarch’s daughter.
“Deviga is sure that the Arbitrator’s story alone will convince the authorities, and any disputing onlooker wouldn’t dare challenge the Arbitrator for fear of unfavourable repercussions in the Temple. According to Captain Bel, the K’Tani will have been thorough in not leaving any trace of their presence, either aboard the Matriarch’s vessel, the Ulitari Ariday, or among the debris of the destroyed G’Vorn Spring, or on any recording device in the spaceport. Additionally, before the Away Team departed Apniania the associates of the B’Det Resistance Cell who remained behind were instructed by Chell to use their contacts within the government to take whatever measures were necessary to delete any images of Commander Narli or the others that may also have been recorded in the port.
“So we are fairly hopeful with all these measures that there won’t be anything to link the Matriarch, her family and associates with the K’Tani, the Gene Clone, or the Away Team. There are a number of flaws to the story, it has to be said, but with luck and a lot of sadly fortunate distraction for the B’Det authorities, not to mention their aversion to any alien-infiltrating new stories currently, we should get away with it.
“On the whole I am very proud of our first and successful undercover mission, and will note citations in each of the Away Team’s personnel files.
“Deviga and her family have vowed that, if they survive the investigation over the recent incidents in the space port, then once things have sufficiently calmed down, they will do everything in their power to re-establish a dedicated Resistance Cell within B’Det’s inner systems. And in the meantime they will use their extensive contacts throughout the region to try and track down and eliminate the Gene Clone – whilst the younger contingent of their small number will continue to wage a campaign of propaganda in order to raise the profile of the K’Tani threat among the population.
“For although in the long term the re-forming of the B’Det Cell is critical to any hopeful long term outcome against the K’Tani, the B’Det people have more immediate pressing matters for themselves in trying to avoid a civil war. It won’t be easy, the K’Tani will already have many under their influence, especially those intent upon individual wealth and power; and those who made a profit during the last occupation may see this second coming as a positive solution to trying times.
“We can only hope that the Matriarch’s family isn’t alone in seeing the bigger picture – though I feel that nothing short of radical change will be necessary in order to avoid a conflict between the inner and outer systems of B’Det. They have grown apart so much since the K’Tani were last overthrown, and to ask such a thing of a deeply traditional people and their liberal, progressive colonies in the border regions of their empire may be asking too much.
“Nevertheless, Captain Bel provided instructions to the Matriarch for how lines of communication should be safely re-established once the general Resistance Network eventually… hopefully, re-forms in this area and once the B’Det cell is ready; though I fear given the full facts of the situation that time is many months, if not years, into the future.
“This fact is just another affirmation that we are embroiled in a conflict way beyond our influence; a conflict that could rage for a long time to come. Currently all the odds are against a positive outcome and I have a nagging voice in my head – unsurprisingly a Tiburonian voice – telling me that for the sake of the souls aboard the Fantasy and in order to safeguard the longevity of this ship, I should pull us out of this impossible situation, forget about the K’Tani and the disbanded Resistance and focus on our surviving number; just point the Fantasy toward Federation space and run, even if it means a dangerous voyage that takes decades as we traverse around Tholian territory.
“But as the Commodore constantly reminds me, where our compliment is some few hundreds shy of a thousand survivors, there are hundreds of thousands of souls we left behind in Qovakia; among them colleagues, friends and families of our own number, who are relying on others… on us, to liberate them. And while the duty of a Starfleet Captain is primarily for the safety of his ship and his crew, he also has a greater purpose for the sake of the Fleet, the Federation and all the principles it holds dear.
“We can only hope and pray that our colleagues in Federation space find some way to breech the Tholian Annexes separating us and come to our aid – though with the war against the Dominion raging back home, again I am not hopeful. Even if I am wrong, I seriously wonder whether the combined might of the entire Starfleet as it stands could hold up against the sheer number of K’Tani; to have taken the whole of Qovakia in one campaign would indicate an armada of gargantuan proportions.
Christian performed a Kru-Dan move, sweeping his legs in a figure of eight as he ducked and turned, guard raised, and faced the rear of his unlit office. He adopted the base stance once again, staring through the tall multi-panelled window wall at the streaks of starlight converging at the vanishing point as the Fantasy continued on its steady course.
“My acquisition of the Matriarch Deviga’s former General, Mulcro, as a new member of the Fantasy’s crew has for now been kept undisclosed. He is a remarkable man, not least because of his positive attitude; having lost a familiar and respected job, been taken far away from the people he so loyally and lovingly served for so many years, and worst of all, been accused of murdering his shipmates and kidnapping his beloved Mistress and daughter, any other man would be at the very least pining for what he used to have. But Mulcro has been nothing but positive. He sees his place on the Fantasy merely as a temporary circumstance, and he fully believes there will come a time, at some point, when he will be able to return home to B’Det, and with honour. Until that time comes he will do as his Mistress ordered and serve as a member of this crew.
“I suppose … I suppose he has to, for to think otherwise could destroy him.
“Since his arrival we have met several times and I am very relieved to report that Mister Mulcro is not only a willing and capable individual, he is also a very accomplished star sailor, and he will be a huge asset to our compliment.
“During his short recovery time under Lieutenant O’Hara’s, I have to say nothing short of excellent care, we learned that Mulcro is fitted with a discrete cybernetic memory port, as most Generals in B’Det are, allowing him to ‘download’ and access data at an incredible rate – this to enable him to store all the family business’s immense, ever-changing inventory and to argue contracts and recall fine print in great detail during negotiations with other Generals.
“It was relatively straightforward to manufacture a link bridging our technology to his, and so made it possible for him to access unrestricted data files that would speed up his transition into our crew. So having boned up on Starfleet basics it’s no surprise that he was impressive, for an outsider, when taking the standard SAT during a late night secure holodeck simulation I arranged with Souveson and Lirik last night.
“However, the ability to access Starfleet data at the speed of thought wasn’t the main reason for him performing so well on the SAT. Prior to becoming a General, Mulcro served in the B’Det military space fleet as a command line officer for nearly 15 years – but after he’d suffered a near-death incident when putting his life on the line for the sake of his shipmates, he was retired with honours, in keeping with the B’Det’s tradition for rewarding such an event. He didn’t want to leave – serving in the military was his life, but the rules were the rules and because of such an outstanding act of heroism he had to be let go. As the next best option, he immediately transferred into commercial service and quickly became a much sought-after General.
“As with older veterans from many races, General Mulcro is outwardly imposing and serious, yet beneath that dedicated exterior he is a calm, somewhat charming, deep thinking and highly cultured man; though as Commodore Jackson continually mentions from personal experience, he takes his responsibilities very seriously and he’s not a man to be pushed.
“From his performance in the SAT and his many credentials, in agreement with Commodore Jackson I will be awarding him the field rank of Lieutenant Commander, assigning him to the Command department, and I can only hope that when they get to hear about it, Starfleet Command will understand such a bold field commission.
“The fact is we have so precious few officers in our number who have such a range of abilities and proper command experience in combat situations. Should we need to split the USS Fantasy into its three main independent sections at some time in the future, which I believe is a certainty and something we have continuously been preparing for, then we will need many more command crew than we currently have.
“His relatively high rank is sure to raise an eyebrow or two among some department heads considering his total lack of Starfleet experience in the field, but his skills are numerous, and his diverse specialist knowledge is unmatched by all but a few other officers aboard. I hope he will be a good example to the rest of the volunteer crew, not least by being the highest ranking Outer Zone citizen on board.
“His first introduction to his shipmates will take place tomorrow; however, although he will be in standard officer uniform, initially he will be an acting Lieutenant Commander – an observer, learning Starfleet etiquette and in particular bridge operations. He won’t serve as a functioning line officer until he completes his orientation training, in about five or six weeks.”
Christian closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and jump-turned into the basic striking form; a series of frenetic sequential moves with several changes of direction along a set floor pattern, mostly employing elbow, hand, forearm and shoulder blows with deep sweeping leg turns. In seconds, he was back in his starting position. He breathed slowly out and stepped together, slightly bowing, then relaxed, walking toward the window wall behind his chunky desk to stand in the centre of the three-sided bench seating area.
“As soon as the Matriarch’s ship had departed, I de-briefed the Away Team as to our own recent activities on the ship, specifically the reactivation of yet more computer systems and the unlocking of the ‘secret’ decks aboard the Fantasy.
“The Away Team was naturally keen to resume their responsibilities, but I ordered them all on restricted duty – effectively the best kind of rest leave we can afford them at this time, and just while we make our crossing of Nhori Chua Lh’Anhna space, attending to only the most urgent matters requiring their personal attention, and of course taking time to file a detailed mission report.
“My Tactical Officer and most junior department head, Lieutenant Souveson, has done the complete opposite, however, pushing herself hard into her work. She has insisted that we can wait no longer in improving all internal and external security systems and that increasing the ship’s general ability to defend itself from an attack is both urgent and vital.
“Although we are safe for the time being I cannot deny that I agree with her sense of priority and moreover I have released as many of Bel’s men and the engineering team to assist her in overhauling all phaser turrets, torpedo launchers and other ballistics around the ship.
“Nevertheless, I have been aware of her tendency to be overly self-critical when in my presence since her return, and have heard her converse about nothing but work, even down to the minutia, like she’s using it as a front. She won’t listen to me or the Commodore about easing back for a while, promising that she will take time off when the main bulk of the work is completed.
“So I patiently await her report of the mission to B’Det, the only one still outstanding from the Away Team, but naturally I worry that rather than being merely over-zealous, she may have been adversely affected by the experience of the Away Mission.
“That feeling goes against what both the Commodore and Lieutenant O’Hara have stated in their reports; although a bit naïve and nervous, according to them both she proved herself as a capable security officer and showed she was a valuable member of the command crew, in spite of her lack of experience, being a recent Academy graduate. Had it not been for her repeated actions, they are both sure the mission would have failed.
“As Lieutenant Hedrik appears to be closest to her I’ve made a private request via Lieutenant Commander Leonard that she takes a special interest in Souveson’s welfare. Commodore Jackson will also encourage her to at least finish her report for me – perhaps that will shed some light as to what’s troubling her.
“Ordinarily I would request a Counsellor to intervene, but we have yet to fill this role with a willing volunteer. Among our number of non-crew we have a qualified psychiatrist, and several people experienced in counselling, but none of them are willing to step up and take on the job, even as a civilian volunteer. However, under Commodore Jackson’s advisement I have today spoken to another passenger who may be persuaded.”
The Captain reached for the beaker of water on his desk behind and sipped slowly. He then carefully untied the silk sash around his waist and placed it over the back of his chair. Untying the outer and inner lacings to the tunic, he let the heavy material fall apart and shrugged out of it, exposing his torso flesh to the coolness of the office. He briefly forgot he was recording his log as he studied his chest, flattish stomach and arms in the vague, partitioned reflection of the panelled window wall; it had been a while since he’d worked out, and this had been the first opportunity to practice his art.
But rather than martial training, what he noted from the slight flabbiness around his midriff and lower face was that he really needed a periodised programme of fitness activity, something to raise his game. Although not overweight as such, and sticking to a daily regime of basic physical exercise, Christian was a little out of condition for a Starfleet Captain. And he wasn’t alone.
He’d already spoken with Commanders Lirik and Narli about making use of the various gyms and other health and activity facilities on board, and had asked the former about finding someone among the passengers who may be willing to focus on improving the health and fitness of all hands aboard, and the latter to ensure that all facilities were fully equipped and maintained.
In particular, he was keen for certain members of his command crew to address their poor fitness, although he hadn’t mentioned that at the time of the request.
The computer bleeped rapidly three times: “Log recording will terminate in 60 seconds,” she prompted him.
“During the de-brief of the Away Team on ship’s matters I also disclosed Wheezy’s discovery that the Qovakian Senate Guard corpses found shortly after our arrival on board were murdered, it seems, by a humanoid life form of incredible strength and an amount of invulnerability in the form of a type of armoured skin - and showed them the supposed holographic image of what the hand could look like.
“Nothing in our extended database matches. In fact, according to Captain Bel the only life form indigenous to this region that could have such appearance and ability would be the Ore, though if that’s true, then clearly some Ore survived the final battle with the K’Tani, and they were not entirely wiped out as we had been led to believe; O’Hara has confirmed that the deaths of the Guards would have occurred after the final battle in which all Ore were allegedly lost.
“But we can’t think how or why Ore would have been aboard a vessel like the SS Fantasy – a luxury passenger liner all the way from the other side of Tholian space. And what could have led to one of their number killing the Senate Guards, their former allies – their betrayal? And why weren’t the Guards ever found - surely they were missed? And presumably searched for? It’s possible the Guards were acting independently, or in secret and no one knew they were aboard. It is highly unlikely that the Guards boarded the Fantasy when it was still off-world, as the Qovakian records indicate the ship had been found and stored immediately in the Orlega One facility on Helub a good few months before the final battle, and the age of their decay puts them at being killed somewhere between four and five years ago – after said event.
“If some Ore were alive, it would be concurrent with Commander Leonard’s discovery of the Ore ‘flag’ at the K’Tani-built storage facility on Helub shortly before the invasion – and could be a link between it and the Fantasy. But then, if there were Ore alive, then why didn’t they show themselves, or contact the Qovakian Government direct?
“Perhaps they did and were ignored, or maybe they decided they would not help on this occasion, given that the Qovakians had sold them out to the K’Tani, thus leading to their – possibly not quite – annihilation.
“This is all mostly supposition based on circumstantial evidence and rumour; perhaps a more reasonable explanation is that a group of individuals are trying to keep the myth of the Ore alive – possibly the Helan. But the consensus of the command crew is to keep an open mind on the subject and to continue to gather information. If the Ore are alive, then they clearly have no interest in showing their presence for the time being.”
Christian loosened the double knot tying his combat trousers and let the garment drop to the floor. He grinned at his retro underwear; among the many rejected Starfleet Uniform designs that had been uncovered, each range came complete with an extended ranged of clothing for a variety of situations; this standard issue jock among them.
“Although the discovery of the Alpha Deck has been extremely useful, further investigation of the ship’s other Hidden Decks and their contents have been shelved while the Away Team continues to recoup, available crew work on our security systems, and the new voluntary crew hone their skills, working hard at completing their first level of basic training while we make our long sojourn to the Carifoura League of Star Systems.
“We estimate journey time at 9 days, though six of those are at warp 2 while crossing Nhori Chua Lh’Anhna space. I am grateful for the time if only to study Commander Leonard’s impending epic shakedown report on the Fantasy. With myself, the Vulcans and Captain Bel’s men aiding our already not insignificant engineering team across the vessel and many kilometres of Jefferies tubes as we aid Lt Souveson, Mister Leonard has been able to focus on the wider picture, investigating a seemingly unending list of unusual and peculiar systems throughout the ship, supplementary systems that I believe could be vital to aiding us in our mission.
“His initial work, with the assistance of Mister Narli and Mister Lirik, has enabled us to populate the Passenger Section, though admittedly only in certain areas. Despite our number, we are somewhat rattling around in such an enormous vessel, and with so much of the ship designed for entertainment and relaxation it’s inevitable that entire sections across many decks will go unused. But the move has greatly changed the mood onboard; where we had initially thought of the Passenger Section as an unnecessary appendage, a place of mystery and dark unknowns, it is now slowly becoming a home.”
PS DECK 25, SECTION 9-87, 1712 HOURS
Hedrik hurriedly squeezed between the turbolift’s parting doors, eyes frantically searching her surroundings for any kind of signage. She cursed Souveson for having de-activated the computer’s ‘b-line’ locator programme in all the main corridors and turbolifts of the ship’s Passenger Section, deeming it to be a security risk should they ever be boarded – had she not, Hedrik could have merely touched an interface (or tapped her communicator), requested a location and be guided there by leader dots, tiny illuminated pinpricks buried in all carpets or embedded in the walls throughout all areas of the ship.
Most hands were not yet familiar with much of the ship, Command Crew included. The design of the many staff-only areas on the Passenger Section such as this one didn’t help; they were unnervingly alike making identification of specific rooms even harder: gun metal grey carpets flowed along angular corridors of uniform light grey walls and ceilings, lit by regular strips of thin rectangular overhead lighting – a design chosen to jar any passenger who mistakenly wandered where they shouldn’t as it varied so greatly from the colourful and resplendent regalia of their usual surroundings. Hedrik briefly wondered if such areas were also planned that way to keep the crew ‘grounded’, not allowing them to grow comfortable in the slick passenger environs that were their main place of work.*
* FOOTNOTE ONE
A-beam supports were exposed, some even sporting their retro inspired jumbo rivets and bolts. Along the skirting, utility piping of varying thickness randomly sprouted from the floor and branched across the walls before burrowing into the cornice above, all the same colour grey creating an odd almost wintry environment.
Doorways were erratically spaced, set back slightly from the walkways within shallow recesses framed in the same darker grey as the carpet. The identification for each room’s function was in the form of shiny grey lettering placed above equally monochrome door access controls – and even these were given as abbreviated letters and numbers rather than full names, though it was a very easy code to follow once the main principles were known. Hedrik had fortunately had to orient the ship’s cipher for internal coordinates when working on the Quartermaster’s birth allocation programme with Narli and Lirik.
Her eyes fell on a solitary double doorway in the middle of a long wall section, its designation: ECR-A:25/9-83. Hedrik easily recognised the second part of the code as the Fantasy’s internal deck/corridor grid reference, and interpreted the first part of the code as being the primary Engineering Conference Room on this deck: her destination.
The doors remained closed as she approached so she pressed the entry key for them to part. As they did the several people gathered inside at the far end of the room under subdued lighting turned as one toward her. Lt Commander Leonard was the only person standing, in front of a large anti-grav display screen showing Starfleet’s standard computer interface – Hedrik herself had created a protocol that had updated the Fantasy’s outdated core with every last piece of data contained in the Hudson’s and the Severn’s computers, at the same time updating the Fantasy’s last Starfleet visual display format. Large amounts of data extracted from the USS Craybourne’s damaged core supplemented more general data, the Runabout memory files having being limited to only what was deemed essential for their respective assignments.
Seated in front of the tall, handsome German behind a line of study desks were Ensign Murak and Lieutenants Rebbik, Warnerburg, Madison and Wheezy. (Lieutenant Commander Narli did not attend as he had already proven himself familiar with the subject – ‘too familiar’ as Commodore Jackson had remarked to the Captain)
“You are late, Lieutenant,” Leonard said sternly. “You may well already know about Log protocols, but the Commodore specifically asked each of you to attend this training session to be sure you understood the Starfleet ethos behind them.” The others were intent on her reply, presuming her tone of response.
“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir,” she said as neutrally as she could manage, rushing to fill the spare seat beside Wheezy’s bulk.
There was a pause as her colleagues digested her controlled reaction; only the medical officer beside her grinned. Even Leonard was surprised.
“Very well. As I was saying: this,” he indicated the screen beside him, “as you should all know by now is your standard personal interface. Any time you verbally access the computer’s visual display you will automatically open a screen that is personalised to your needs and security access, though this bottom frame will always contain important general ship updates, outstanding urgent requests or impending deadlines, as well as any recent significant calendar changes-“
“Sorry, sorry,” Reb interrupted rudely and disinterestedly all at the same time, waving his bony hand at Leonard, “but is this level of detail really necessary?”
The blonde German appeared lost for words as Reb looked to his comrades for some support.
“I mean, as you yourself just indicated we’re all familiar with the principles,” he continued, “and we’re none of us exactly inexperienced in computer interfacing or… or stupid or anything.”
Leonard summoned his stern voice though didn’t look Reb in the eyes when he responded: “The Commodore has ordered me to instruct all members of the Command Crew who are unfamiliar with Starfleet record keeping protocols about all the required procedures and regulations. This level of detail is necessary for you to have a complete understanding of what’s expected.”
“That’s right,” Hedrik frowned at Reb. “I’m probably the most informed of any among us, but even I have many gaps in my knowledge. Go on, Commander.”
“What?!” Reb scowled at the Orion, not believing quiet the level of crawling she’d stooped to – to him she clearly had more than just salubrious intentions on the Commander, and sucking up appeared to be the latest tactic.
Leonard shifted from foot to foot, expecting Reb to continue, but there was no more as the half Ferengi just glowered at the nonplussed green woman.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he smiled at Hedrik, slightly unnerved by her beauty, his eyes instinctively flitting all about her body: her toned hands, her heaving bosom, her ears, her eyes… her lips… those lips. It took an amount of effort to tear his gaze away, knowing as he did that he daren’t look back.
“As Starfleet officers it is your duty to access a terminal on a regular basis in order to keep appraised of events and up to date with your own department and any new requests from colleagues. Normally you would be made aware of a large amount of this kind of information at staff meetings and line routines, but as we have so few staff and so little time for meetings, for now the most reliable way to stay on top of the ship’s overall situation and your personal workload is to come here,” he tapped the screen. “The Purser’s department will collate all ship’s records and personal logs; they have worked with Lieutenants Hedrik and Souveson to instate protocols that will automatically process ships status continuously, cross-referencing with the multitudinous lines of communication, auto-updating the information screen accordingly and in line with security access.
“Any outstanding requests will be indicated here,” he tapped the left frame. “And here,” he tapped the menu list to the right side of the screen, “is the index of all your previously recorded logs. Beneath these are any subordinate and public logs accessible to you. Any questions so far?”
Hedrik raised her hand enthusiastically. He prompted her with his eyebrows.
“We should ensure the interface is also accessible in holo-matrix form, Commander,” she advised in a proper tone, “there are locations around the ship where access to a terminal is limited, and a holo-generated display may be more appropriate.”
Leonard nodded. “Already covered, Lieutenant, as is an audio-based facility. On that you should know that many Starfleet Officers get into the habit of accessing ship’s business when they return to quarters after shift. They can listen to what’s been going on while they shower, change, eat and relax. Although I should point out there is never a good enough excuse for not keeping your own Logs current. Failure to do so normally results in disciplinary action – but the terminal will prompt you with reminders at all appropriate times.”
“Murak,” Leonard nodded to the Romulan who had tried to raise his hand in the same way as Hedrik, but somehow made it look more like an odd salute.
“I already record my work Log each day as I finish my shift,” he explained, with more than a hint of pride, though in truth it was a habit he had quickly formed after graduating from the Romulan Fleet Academy, “but I have heard that you keep a private diary as well, with other information? I don’t understand what this is for.”
Leonard nodded. “You mean a Personal Log. It is the duty of all Starfleet personnel to record Logs related to their work. However, it is also a requirement for any Officer, NCO grade and above, to additionally keep a Personal Log, detailing observations, personal thoughts and feelings, and referencing any… casual relationships you may have – just as you say like a regular diary. There is a stipulation in your duties to record a Personal Log at least once a week, but if you can do more, it makes it easier and quicker to keep up to date.”
“Sounds like an invasion of privacy to me,” Reb chirped, indignant in the whole matter.
“A luxury we don’t always have as Command Officers,” Leonard retorted, acknowledging as he did the irony of what he said given his own need for personal privacy. He’d also been pleasantly surprised by the speed of his own reaction, but thought it possibly harsh so tempered it with: “but no one is asking you to pour your heart out or reveal any graphic intimate detail.”
Reb folded his arms and leaned back in his chair; Leonard tried to ignore him.
“You are required to read and absorb any work-related logs submitted by your own staff,” Leonard accessed the relevant area on the screen. “Each one requires an approval thumb signature, or failing that an audio receipt, to acknowledge that you’ve received and read them.”
“Can anyone access our personal logs?” Reb asked, stuck on the previous point, and ashamedly recalling when he’d pried into Captain Christian’s personal log whilst transporting him to the Outer Zone in his beloved and long since lost Pod.
“Only with good reason,” Leonard said, “such as an internal security investigation, or if it’s a critical situation. Of course, if you are MIA under mysterious circumstances or you’re dead, it’s a requirement for your senior officer or a counsellor or member of the command crew to access all your recent logs, Personal or otherwise, in case it should have a bearing on the situation.”
“Shame there is no need to detail sexual encounters,” Reb smirked at Hedrik. “I am sure yours would make for some… stimulating reading.”
“Oh, you can read, then?” Hedrik responded sharply.
The group as one sniggered at the quip. Reb paused and then genuinely laughed along with them, refreshed to find that Hedrik hadn’t lost all her spunk.
PURSER’S APARTMENTS, PASSENGER SECTION, 1830 HOURS
“Computer, open Secure Log, Diplomatic Eyes Only. Audio confirmation: Rules Were Made To Be Broken. Verify.”
“Voice match and identity confirmed. Go ahead Corpsman Lirik.”
On returning from his Away Mission to B’Det, he had been pleasantly surprised to find that among the various sub-systems and security protocols that had been enabled during his absence, a Diplomatic Core Interface was among them.
Such Cores were common on larger Starfleet ships: intended usually for storage and transportation of top secret data, the small stand-alone computer cores were normally disguised as part of a regular computer core, though completely isolated, and accessible by personal communicator only by top Starfleet diplomatic aides and those with equal security access in line with all the usual Starfleet accesses and restrictions. He had tried his luck weeks before, to no avail, but since the recent increased access during his absence, Lirik speculated that as the Fantasy had been fitted with a specially designed core intended for use by Starfleet, it would surely have one.
And it did. The Fantasy’s was completely empty of data, but provided a means for securely storing his most personal logs.
Commander Lirik glanced over at the door that led back to the bedroom, checking its control switch was in secure mode. Reassured, he relaxed into the warmly generous bubble bath, instantly soothed by the potent aromatic fragrances. The reflections of candle-lit rippling water on the antique smoky mirror clad walls and ceiling of his opulent private quarters’ en suite bathroom evoked thoughts of a Deco style grotto.
He knew he could not be overheard by Fraxon, left snoozing next door – as with all accommodations on board, his quarters were perfectly soundproofed. He’d additionally ensured total secrecy with the special physical ‘adaptations’ he’d made to the local comms network, isolating his quarters from prying eyes and ears. He was alone but for his own conscience, and so the thought of recording a coded, private log with information currently withheld from his Captain and fellow crew suddenly felt a condemning act of selfish treachery.
Before the rush of guilt could take a hold, his embedded psychological training kicked in, prompting an image in his mind of a haphazard red wax seal embossed with the Corps’ coat of arms – the trigger for any such thoughts.
Lirik momentarily recalled taking his Corpsman’s Oath before the Federation’s High Council and realised that once again he was lurking behind the Standing Orders of the Corps in order to justify his actions, which dictated that, no matter the situation, no matter how far from help and how desperate the circumstances, a Corpsman always stayed true to his Oath and operated in the best interests of the Federation as a whole – even if that meant acting outside Starfleet’s normal code of behaviour by withholding information, lying to his fellow crew, disobeying orders, or ultimately, if it came to it, self sacrifice. True, he thought, he had recently pledged his allegiance to the Captain, vowed to serve him under Starfleet regulations and agreed that all Diplomatic Corps responsibilities were secondary. But there had been little alternative at the time; had he not complied, the Captain would surely have… would still … limit his role on board and curtail his Corpsman’s right to countermand his and the Commodore’s decisions by whatever means, even if that meant incarcerating him. No, he concluded, his normal modes of behaviour could not work in the Outer Zone. It was in his, and the Corps’, best long term interests to tow the line and keep his true intent a secret for as long as he could.
“Having been granted several days of limited duties following our away mission to B’Det, my postponed analysis of the various and fragmented communications extracted from the Qovakian navigation buoy many days ago is now complete. I presented the data I found to the Command Crew earlier today, corroborating our theory that several dozen vessels of a number of races from our side of the wormhole had indeed escaped the initial coup and fled toward Qovakia’s borders. Some ships had communicated briefly with each other in order to verify what was taking place, and as a result some appeared to have grouped together. The majority, however, headed away on their own, most following a variety of solitary hyperbolic routes that will take them around Tholian space and eventually, after many long years and not a little luck, back to Federation territory.
“The overwhelming majority of transmissions were between Outer Zone locals, both private individuals and groups, all topics related in some way to the coup. Most were merely to report the obvious – that the K’Tani had returned – and to tell families and loved ones that they were currently safe and well. There were messages from commercial vehicles conveying details of safe travel routes, and advice on places to avoid, particularly the many minor wormholes that had sprung up across Qovakia and the localised problems they were causing on the main shipping lanes.
“Apparently the initial couple of weeks post-invasion had seen a wide-reaching breakdown in long range interstellar commlinks. Many relay stations were either knocked out of action by the ion storms or by the scattering effect of newly formed wormholes, and the K’Tani took care of a few more, temporarily disabling them. Once the initial invasion wave was over, normal but monitored service was resumed, the result of which was that the sheer volume of subspace traffic overloaded many more of the relays. At the time of our data download most relays were back on line, but whether a full service has since resumed would depend entirely on the K’Tani’s subsequent actions, of which we are unaware.
“My research also uncovered a large number of official transmissions sent out on multiple frequencies by as yet un-invaded territories within Qovakia and in the local surrounding regions. Many had requested assistance in evacuating populations, while some were seeking military protection or pacts with neighbouring provinces. Some former occupied worlds even openly welcomed the K’Tani’s return, though I would guess that was from an act of damage limitation rather than genuine hospitality.” [Lirik had verified these extrapolated facts through intel gathered from the native Qovakians and other Outer Zone inhabitants on board]
“No data made reference to the situation on Helub or indeed any part of Vekaria, nor any mention of what may have happened to the people we left behind,” Lirik said.
He paused recording in order to dunk his head beneath the oily surface of bubbles and scent, moments later resurfacing, careful not to tidal wave over the bath’s rim, wiping his face and eyes clear, running his hands through his hair and resting back onto the smooth indented head rest in the lip of the bath, relishing the gentle flickering-pierced darkness and soft echoing trickle of water about him.
“All of this information I shared at the briefing. However…” Lirik slid up slightly, dried his hand on a nearby towel and looked at the mirror-stripped ceiling. “Computer, disable smoke detector in this room, authorisation Lirik Theta 27J.” The computer trilled. He reached to the rim at the foot of the bath for a shiny object and a delicate porcelain scallop shell ashtray, picked up from it and carefully lit a short thin cigar with the stubby silver antique lighter and puffed gratefully on the tight roll of tobacco leaves, relishing the heady scent overpowering the exotic musk of the bath oils. He rested back into the bath and balanced the cold ashtray on his chest.
“However, there is one portion of data I had difficulty in deciphering due to incomplete signal caused by a localised solar spike during one time period. I relayed this particular fact during my briefing to the command crew, but I refrained from informing them that the solar spike was quite minor, and that I had used various interpretational techniques to re-build the files and come up with the most likely nature of that data.”
Lirik reached behind his head and brought a heavy thickly stemmed crystal glass to his lips, dewy with condensation, tinkling with ice and offering a syrupy-looking, swirling blue-grey hued liquid within. He studied his favourite drink to enjoy with a cigar: a Bolian Scrum – not quite a cocktail, but rather a very grown-up mixture of equal parts Bolian Whisky to Risan Ginger Wine, on ice. The sharp then sweet and increasingly warming sensation enhanced the flavour of the Havana tobacco, becoming first spicily smoky then mellowed, with an after taste of sweet, peppery ginger.
The drink wasn’t replicated - he had found the ingredients in his glorious drinks cabinet in the Chief Purser’s office, the Bolian Whisky a very good and very rare year. The box of hermetically sealed and perfectly humidified cigars were among a greater array of multifarious contents found in one of dozens of huge storage containers on the Yacht’s main cargo deck. Although the Captain had ordered further exploration of the Fantasy’s vast decks suspended since before the Away Team’s return from B’Det, upon his return Lirik couldn’t resist taking the first opportunity for a private late night excursion with Fraxon in tow during a moment of night shift when he knew that no one clever enough was on the Bridge to catch them out.
“Much of the undisclosed data is irrelevant navigational signal, and nearly all the rest of the communications residue I studied were just echoes of the aforementioned signals – but there are several exceptions, and these are at the heart of my deceit, being the information I have yet to share with my fellow crew.”
Lirik took another, longer sip and fingered the smooth surface of the glass, his expression grave, his voice low. “Among the signal were several strings of anomalies over a period of two hours. Looking closer, I spotted a definite pattern and further analysis confirmed that these were indeed scrambled, encoded signals. As such, their content would be impossible to decipher. But by a complicated process of triangulation from previous navigational and comms data, and a certain amount of trial and error, it was possible to extrapolate a best guess as to the identity of the parties. These are the Andorian science vessel Vlekk and the Jem’Hadar cruiser Bruktatt. What is most significant is that these communiqués were on a frequency that could only have been pre-agreed. There could of course be any number of likely reasons for this, and for their contact, the kindest being that by stealth they were helping each other in escaping the K’Tani. But the frequency is a puzzle.
“Until I have further data it would be prudent not to speculate on the possible outcomes. However, as a Corpsman, I’ve been trained to listen to my instincts. And my gut is telling me in this case that there is something more to it. Ambassador Narli may be a long time acquaintance and some time friend, but neither of us can deny our past, or what we are to this day. As the Corps is aware, the loyalty of the Andorians came into question some months before the wormhole to Qovakia was discovered. Among the accusations and hypothetical presumptions bandied about, one was the… and in my opinion far fetched… notion that Andoria may be deliberating whether to withdraw from the Federation, possibly even side with the Dominion.”
Lirik shook his head, took another sip and followed up with a long – over-long – draw on his cigar. “I find that hard to accept, especially after all these years. However, it’s my duty to consider all possibilities. And while it may only be a theory, it is conceivable that the Andorians used their coming to the Outer Zone as a convenient cover in order to meet with the Dominion and negotiate some kind of mutual pact outside of Starfleet’s influence.”
The portly Englishman sipped from his glass and replaced it and the cigar on the rim, splashing water into his face and running his hands through his hair. “I find it hard to imagine Narli face to face with a Vorta striking a deal behind the Federation’s back. I know him… I’m sure I know him.” Lirik stopped, dripping as he spoke, deep in thought about his long-time sparring partner. “But then again, that night, before the Invasion, when he made an unscheduled and unauthorised trip to Helub… He has since said that he was seeking information on the Qovakian government and verification about what had transpired during the K’Tani’s previous occupation. But what if that’s a lie? What if he had been meeting with Dominion representatives all along?”
Lirik laid back and sighed heavily. “As I have no hard evidence to the contrary, I have to presume that somehow the Vlekk and the Bruktatt chanced upon a mutual frequency by which they could communicate by stealth, innocently signalling each other concerning their immediate plight rather than for any ulterior motive.
“But revealing any of this information at this time could be unfavourable to my position; not only could the Captain accuse me, quite rightly, at continuing in my duties as a Corpsman rather than serving as a part of his Command Crew and putting the interests of the former before the latter, but I would also potentially land an amount of suspicion and distrust upon Ambassador… Lieutenant Commander, Narli. And I do so want to give him the benefit of the doubt, for as long as I possibly can. So best I keep it to myself for now. Until I know otherwise it’s just something… another thing… to consider at great length.”
Lirik dried his hands and reached forward once again to puff long and hard on his cigar. “I have also completed my analysis of the communication transparency left behind on the Runabout Hudson by the Vekarian Minister Re Lorken. I had asked Professor – Lieutenant – Karnak for her assistance, but unsurprisingly it transpired that she felt there were other priorities and had simply placed it to one side and failed to inform me; quite how she considers herself to be a student of logic and upholder of all things Vulcan I don’t know. To date there are moments when she behaves more Human than most of her Earth-born colleagues. However, my own ensuing findings have been very revealing.
“Utilising the knowledge of a helpful and frankly superbly intelligent Vekarian, an elderly lady who used to be Deputy Head Librarian at the Vekarian Archives on their race’s home world, I learned that the glyphs are in fact a covert variant of an ancient dialect of Qovakia used by the Government and quite undecipherable by any regular native. Yet more subterfuge.
“So I called upon the assistance of a rather unusual and reclusive Passenger. From my dealings with the underground arms trade on Janus IV in a previous existence, I instantly recognised a former gang member of the infamous Angelics while we were making our escape from Helub all those weeks ago.
“He was part of their brains unit back then, a linguistics genius and top code-breaker. He’d somehow managed to keep himself free while his pals went down, taking himself off and out of the spotlight. Although subsequent confessions and revelations brought a strong case against him, he’d never been traced. I took it upon myself to have a quiet word with him. In return for my selective memory about the less impressive side of his murky past, he agreed to assist me in deciphering what he could and keep our agreement confidential. Despite its initial appearance of iconic symbols, the language is in fact highly complex.
“I feel another twinge of guilt at this – my role as Commander (someone possibly fourth in command of probably the only active Starfleet Vessel in the Outer Zone), conflicts greatly with the needs of the Corps. In these exceptional circumstances, I have to go against training and behave differently, just be the Commander I’ve been appointed to be, for the sake of this ship, its crew and what it represents. There aren’t any official guidelines on what a Corpsman should do in this situation, and I do worry that my subterfuge may show – it is making me extremely anxious. Just by talking to my code-breaker puts me in a vulnerable position, and I have to rely on his word to remain silent. But the need was greater than my modesty.”
Lirik took another sip of the Bolian Scrum, relishing the intense blue of the nearly clear liquid, striated with intricately patterned eddies of dark grey.
“Though not 100 per cent accurate, his best attempt at a translation reveals a good deal of context. It seems that the Vekarians were themselves highly likely to have been considering brokering an arms deal with representatives of the Dominion. They were convinced by Vorta operatives that we of the Federation, and other independent states, were too worthy and principled, so unlikely to agree to any kind of trade in arms, whereas they had immediate access to highly skilled troops and ships, and could deliver several battalions in a matter of months, providing that the Vekarians would be generous in sharing technology, resources and information by return.
“The transparency conveyed these facts to Minister Re Lorken and advised her that Starfleet would not be happy about such a deal with the Dominion and they may even draw arms over it. Starfleet, the Andorians and other Federation members were not to be trusted, and no independent negotiations should be entered into, however mild or innocently inquisitive.” He took a long draw on the small cigar and attempted a few smoke rings, only one completely successfully, the donut shaped smoke folding over itself and distorting as it drifted upwards. “However, my code breaker also assures me that the transparency is incomplete, that there was clearly a supplementary section at the bottom – possibly little more than a short strip – though that part seems to have been lost.”
A few barely audible raps on the door drew a smile across Lirik’s face. “Computer, encrypt recording and file.” The computer trilled in acknowledgement. “Extract cigar smoke and cleanse air,” he said, stubbing out his cigar and gulping some more drink. He sloshed his mouth out with the strong alcohol, and then gargled briefly before swallowing. A moment later the air was clean and fresh. “Unlock the door,” he croaked.
The doorway immediately retracted into the wall, revealing Fraxon, mostly in shadowy relief against the starlit bedroom beyond.
Lirik stood up and faced the doorway, foamy water running off his body.
The shadowed form of the Helan flashed a smile of strong white teeth.
* * *
MAIN SICK BAY, PASSENGER SECTION, 1900 HOURS
Lieutenant O’Hara stood in the wide vestibule of the richly adorned foyer outside the Passenger Section’s main Sick Bay. The spot-lit sculpture in the middle of the half circle of wall before her dominated the scene: a physical representation of the standard Federation medical symbol. It had at first appeared to the newly arrived crew as an impressionist carving, but that turned out to be a false image. A security system, in the form of a holographic generator, continuously projected the image over the top of what was actually there. Lt Commander Leonard had subsequently discovered that the system drew on any available power to maintain its illusion, even siphoning off a continuous stream to a dedicated energy cell should main power fail. It was a sophisticated and indulgent construct for the sake of a sculpture – but with good reason.
Once the Captain had been formerly sworn into his position and a command structure was in place aboard the Fantasy, a deep security subroutine threaded across several key command systems recognised the change in the vessel’s status, unlocking this along with many other secure systems throughout the ship. And so the true sculpture was revealed: two bright gold serpents coiled around a winged wand, stretching from floor to ceiling. A golden scroll beneath reflected the same embossed words as the previous image had: ‘I Place My Trust In God’.
On closer inspection she had seen that the patterning on each serpent was slightly different from the other, as well as one having a set of ruby red eyes, the other a glistening sapphire blue. Her interest so piqued at the time, a tricorder scan confirmed that the serpents and main structure were all made from several casts of solid 9 carat gold pressed latinum fused together, and the large gemstones inset as eyes were real – and flawless.
When she’d initially reported the find and Lt Commander Leonard had been sent to investigate the hologram’s power source, he had been more interested in explaining to her that this double serpent symbol, the Caduceus or Wand of Hermes as it was known, was incorrectly used by the medical profession and had been for hundreds of years, including Starfleet’s Medical Corps. The original image representative of medicine, he had lectured her, was in fact the Rod of Asclepius, a single serpent around a tapered rod with no wings. This double serpent image by association with Hermes was instead representative of the dead, and of merchants, gamblers, liars and thieves.
O’Hara had responded dryly that in that case it was a truer symbol for the people of the Fantasy.
Flanking either side of the outrageous emblem were the two wide entrances to the USS Fantasy’s principle medical facility: on her right, the crash area and emergency treatment bays, behind which were the theatres, surgeries, patient wards, offices and the ship’s morgue all white and gleaming; and to her left, the richly decorated dark satin and chestnut wood reception and waiting area that led to outpatient and non-emergency and dental treatment, private consultation rooms and alternative therapy areas.
The view was similar to the first time she’d seen the facility, only now all the equipment that had previously been missing or dangling out of the walls and ceiling in a state of disrepair had been put right, and the half-finished refurbishment of the non-emergency area had been made good.
It was unnaturally quiet here. The empty corridors that ran to her left and her right were dimly lit; as the local environmental settings detected no presence of any life form in them they had automatically powered down to standby levels. In the sick bay there were no patients, just her few staff. Set along the semi-circle of wall behind her the four sets of turbolift doors had remained firmly shut for some hours, the indicator panels above each one darkened, signifying that no one had recently departed from the facility. In many ways O’Hara was grateful for that – but she couldn’t help but think that this could be the calm waters before the rough sea ahead.
Busy working at the moveable podium-like reception desk of the emergency room entrance, Lieutenant Wheezy’s bulging skeletal-muscular frame looked deeply tanned against her bright white short-sleeve tunic and brilliant white surroundings. Unlike most Starfleet uniform designs, the style the crew had adopted had a range of medical uniforms that harkened back a century ago and more.**
** FOOTNOTE TWO
O’Hara had decided to wear her Starfleet Uniform (Fantasy style) anyway, and without the coat. She wasn’t a fully qualified GP as yet, and as Wheezy was probably her equal in knowledge and ability it felt like the right thing to do – though there was no sense of competition or jealousy from the Jetraleker eunuch. Wearing the uniform O’Hara also felt more part of the Command Crew and less the ‘medical appendage’.
“Wheezy, why don’t you call it a night,” she walked a few paces closer.
The Jetraleker looked up from her console. “Well, only if you’re sure,” she said after a pause. O’Hara was sure Wheezy was a classic workaholic, and had expected her to insist working her full shift until 8pm. “I’ve completed all my simulations for today, attended Commander Leonard’s training session, and I’ve even started working out a schedule for the crew’s routine check-ups so that-”
“Lieutenant, I don’t need an update, and I don’t like to have to repeat myself either,” O’Hara interrupted.
The heavy-browed wide face of the Jetraleker half smiled. “Thank you, Sir.” She closed down her station and glanced at the tall red head, thinking that the Human looked a tad forlorn. “Are you going to the Starlight Bar later, Doctor?”
“Oh no, who is it this time?” O’Hara asked witheringly – none of the strange holo-programmes chosen by the appointed proprietor of the venue had appealed to her so far, not the deadpan Vulcan classical harp quartet and their soulless requiem, nor the Melkotian humming choir, and least of all the two nights of a particularly shouty and depressing old-style Klingon Opera (in fact a monologue) that translated as “Four thousand affirmations of honour”, subtitled “tales of the bloody corpses of Krakk and other ancient lore” (though the three Klingons on board apparently devoured every moment of it).
“Actually it’s a live group of passengers and crew,” Wheezy said. “Apparently they met each other when a storage area containing musical instruments was uncovered while you were…away. They’re on at the usual time… you could join me?”
O’Hara stared at Wheezy. “I …,” she had been about to give an excuse; socialising wasn’t foremost on her mind. But she reminded herself of the Starfleet Marine attitude to life and war; that any non-combat time should be for living life to the full. Wheezy rolled the console unit to its storage position at the side of the entrance.
“Well, okay then. I’d like that,” she said, then raised a warning finger. “But I’m not staying if they’re terrible.”
“Yes you will,” Wheezy grinned and strode toward one of the four turbolifts opposite, catching O’Hara’s hand in hers as she passed, and made sure she gave the CMO a friendly if slightly over-emphasised wink as the doors were closing.
O’Hara giggled – winking had been a revelation to the Jetraleker, and she still found it endlessly amusing to wink at just about everyone. The Lieutenant wondered if the novelty would ever wear off.
Walking into the non-emergency and outpatient area of the facility she glanced around at its plush seating and exotic potted plants. It was frankly unnecessary, in her opinion; she supposed it made absolute sense for a Passenger Liner to have such a facility as distinct from an area for medical emergencies, but given that the Fantasy was now a Starfleet vessel it had made no sense to her as work got underway.
The Captain and Commodore had confirmed to her that it was distinctly possible that, in time, they may take on refugees and hopefully liberate at least some of their people, and that a less austere configuration would suit those people – and their current reluctant passengers – best of all, giving them as much a sense of normality as they could. O’Hara had grumbled about ‘mollycoddling’ and made some off-hand quip about being asked to be a cosmetic enhancement surgeon next, but they spent only a short sentence or two putting her straight.
Through the back of the elliptical waiting room and reception area, three wide corridors bled off to unmarked doorways and open stairwells up and down to additional treatment facilities.
On this same deck were specific areas for ophthalmology, orthopaedics, acupuncture, dermatology and dentistry to name a few. The facility on the deck above sprawled out further and included the outpatients clinic with its treatment booths and consultancy rooms, specific areas for obstetrics, natal and maternity plus the many and varied cosmetic surgeries on offer to the passengers (these even extended into gender and species realignment surgeries another deck above). Also on the deck immediately above were her duty quarters, which were directly over, and about the same size as, her office.
Leonard and the rest of the Command Crew concurred that the facility appeared to have been extended from its previous incarnation, and had other indications that it was intended for dual purpose, presumably offering a host of specialist facilities on Starfleet missions should they be required, as well as on the occasions when they were required by fare-paying passengers.
The facility on the deck below was just as large as that above the main sick bay area, and included pharmacology, chemical analysis labs, supplies, staff meeting and training rooms and all the support areas and additional alternative therapy treatment areas.
The entire complex was augmented by adjacent life sciences divisions that mostly surrounded the main, middle deck. These wide-ranging life sciences labs were more obviously designed with dual Starfleet and passenger interests, presumably catering for anything from amateur enthusiasts to groups of specialists among the Passengers who wished to pursue their interests, or even be a host to a greater scientific mission that could involve the entire ship.
But for O’Hara, it amounted to nothing more than an awfully big and over-equipped facility for so very few skilled workers.
The tall red head paused at a corridor intersection and looked left – one light shone through a door’s opaque oval glass panel from a room on the right. She smiled, unexpectedly grateful that Captain Christian’s singular efforts had graced her with several more recent volunteers.
She turned right and ambled round to the central area of the medical facility and through to her office. It was a large, open-plan, circular ‘pill’-shaped space with direct window observation to several key areas: the main diagnostic/triage area, intensive care ward and special observation ward. Narrow manual doorways beside each window provided immediate access into each space and two further sliding single doors led into opposite corridors.
The spherical room was luxuriant, having a velvet-like carpet of vibrant blue, polished chestnut furniture upholstered with sturdy cream-toned canvas, cushions of various blue shades striped with gold and blood red, all neatly and comfortably arranged for easiest access and least clutter. The carpet swept up on to the wall to about hip height, the walls above panelled in a light blue, each panel separated from the next by dark, granite-looking pillars that tapered out as they angled up and over into the centre of the slightly domed room, converging at a central, opaque glass hemisphere. The ceiling spaces above the blue panels and between the struts contained large, adjustable light panels; the three large observation windows cut into the wall’s architecture and each were fitted with an integral privacy film, allowing the Doctor to see out, but no one to see in when required.
The office was graced with a private diagnostic/treatment bed, a conversational seating area of one long and two short sofas around a low table, and in front of a three-sectioned tall display cabinet that dominated the room was a large, impressive antique desk with four matching chairs with arms, all upholstered in the same cream material. Her own chair was of similar design but higher-backed and remarkably comfortable if a little overly opulent for an ex-Marine no-quite qualified student doctor. Cabinets, compartment doors and bookshelves peppered the walls, some jutting partially into the room, helping to define the ‘areas’.
On the unfettered part of wall area directly opposite her desk, an open-style single person elevator allowed direct access to several levels below or above, including directly into her duty quarters. Along with the rest of the Command Crew, as CMO O’Hara was also entitled to regular quarters on the Command Yacht, and to personal apartments on the Passenger Section, the latter being just several decks above on the Starboard side.
Beside the elevator on one side was a small doorway leading to a private bathroom, store and shower room. On the other side was a wide replicator with specialist enhancement for the medical division.
Dropping gently into her chair, O’Hara cast her eyes slowly around the room. Its enormity was just so much of a reminder of the expectations that came with the role, making her feel very small. Since graduating from Starfleet’s medical school she had sometimes wondered where she might be several years ahead and from time to time had considered whether she had what it took to be a Starship’s Chief Medical Officer. O’Hara remembered trying to imagine how it would feel sitting in the CMO’s office, and had always assumed that by the time she got there it would feel comfortable and deserving. But she had never imagined an office of this size, let alone in all its regaled majesty, and she felt anything but deserving right now.
O’Hara reached forward and gently tapped her terminal, the white on navy UFP emblem replaced instantly with her personalised standard interface. Noting eight new report entries from her subordinates and several more from fellow Command Crew in her inbox, O’Hara decided that as they were non-urgent she would leave them for the morning, ending her day’s business with her official log entry. As she selected the appropriate command, the screen flickered slightly in two diagonal corners – the fault not surprising to her given that a good deal of the interface terminals on the ship were old to the point of decrepitude.
“Chief Medical Officer’s Log, Stardate 51393.3. There have been no admissions today, and no medical emergencies. All outpatients currently undergoing treatment are progressing as expected. Several of the crew were treated for minor cuts, bruising and burning during the early afternoon, all related to the routine maintenance and upgrade of plant within the ship’s outdated and ailing Jeffreys tubes and maintenance shafts and crawlways; I have requested a meeting with the Captain concerning unnecessary safety risks and aim to better protect the workers in the first instance, particularly considering how much of the same work there is to come. With such a small medical staff and the increased probability of conflict, as CMO I intend to prevent all unnecessary traffic through the emergency room from the outset, even if that means directing my fellow officers in the benefits of a Health and Safety perspective in their decision making.
“As the facility is so quiet, nearly all of my Team’s time has therefore been spent studying; either me instructing the group or individuals, or each of us studying a variety of holotraining programmes, both in residence and on the holodecks.
“At the start of the K’Tani invasion, I was only a matter of weeks away from becoming a fully qualified MD. Although much of the USS Fantasy’s database is several years out of date, the vast amount of library files on board include the majority of Starfleet Academy’s core memory files, including those of its subsidiary and support branches, including Starfleet Medical. The Captain and Commodore have agreed that the medical training database is sufficient to complete my final training and many examinations – indeed, the non-Starfleet medical files extensively detail the work of many of my predecessors in the role of the Fantasy’s chief surgeon.
“With luck and not too much interruption, I hope to qualify in less than two months. And not a moment too soon – I feel inadequate as the ship’s CMO without having the title of ‘Doctor’, despite the confidence of my commander and of my team, some of whom have far more practical medical experience than I. It’s somewhat ironic given our circumstances that I, on the other hand, have more hands on experience of battlefield medicine than they do.
“Lieutenant Wheezy is not just a fine doctor, but she is also an excellent organiser. She has a good rapport with the other volunteer medical staff and seems to grasp and retain new information very quickly. In the past I may have been jealous of that, or even slightly resentful. But given our situation, I can only feel blessed to have her on my team. I have come to understand that Jetralekers have a very strong sense of loyalty and duty, but I can also add that they are extremely amiable with it.
“Like me, before studying to be a doctor Wheezy trained and served as a nurse. After she became the equivalent of an MD she then specialised as a paediatrician, before joining her government as a medical advisor; all excellent qualifications to be my deputy.
“Sister Matthew is also an excellent aid – for a woman of her age she has almost limitless energy, in fact I have rarely seen such strength and agility in a Human woman of her background. Where Wheezy is the brains and structure, Sister Matthew is all the legwork and manual supervision. She does intrigue me, though. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about her – the way she appears to be completely comfortable in the sick bay environment, and the way she seems to be so calm and competent in a crisis. She has spoken of having nursing experience, but never in an official capacity. She also has an incredible knack for interfacing with the ship’s technology, which again seems at odds with her background.”
O’Hara shook her head. Something caught her eye – it was in front and to her right, on the other side of the glass in the special observation ward. Sister Matthew was right there, in her black robes, stark against the white background, her forearms dressed in white cuffs from her elbows to her wrists. She was looking right back at the Lieutenant with an intent look upon her face. A heartbeat later the Sister beamed and nodded an enthusiastic hello.
The Lieutenant just nodded back at her – then smiled also, watching as the nun continued to smile and nod and go about her business primping and smoothing the treatment beds and checking everything was in its proper place.
“I had assumed that Sister Matthew declined taking the SAT for vocational reasons – she is a nun after all, a devout, and as such has no inclination to join Starfleet or any other organisation. But she is happy to volunteer, and I am happy for her to help. Trouble is, I’d like to know just how good she could be. Everything I’ve seen of her tells me she’d make a first rate medic, if not a nurse in her own right with the proper training. But she seems to almost hide behind her manual labouring, delegating the more responsible medical tasks to others while she keeps to the wings, observing, listening, ready to jump in when needed. Perhaps it’s a God thing.
“Then there are the third and fourth in my team – and for some reason, I don’t know why, but I find myself ranking my team in this way, according to when each volunteered to help.
“Crewman Hensil Arrorot, it transpires, is a geriatric carer. That’s a euphemism, by the way. Nevertheless, he has learnt his craft well, and has a head start on many with his knowledge of anatomy and physiology, particularly in geriatric care – and yes, that’s still a euphemism, even if it is true in training and intent. He is a brave and enthusiastic young man, but he is a little gung-ho, and he’s got a long way to go if he’s ever to learn how to behave as a Starfleet officer. What can I say to that – he’s a chip off the old block!
“Hensil is New Parisian – of Kazakhstanian lineage originally. He came to the Outer Zone as primary carer for an investments mogul, a fellow New Parisian who was still on the lookout for a money-making deal despite being in his nineties and slightly infirm. Hensil was separated from his charge at the time of the attack, and he carries a lot of guilt for escaping with us instead of staying behind and searching for his employer. But he is working hard, and talking about it, and that’s really the best he can do.
“Crewman Unadi Kaswak is my number four and the yin to Hensil’s yang – much like Wheezy and Sister Matthew are two sides of the same coin. Unadi is as shy and quiet at Hensil is loud and bumptious. He is part Rumaronian, which in his case means he is an empath. Unlike most empaths, he can at will absorb another’s emotions. The process has a calming effect on the other person, though Unadi has to focus in order to reduce those emotions within his own body. It would seem he can handle a substantial amount of another’s physical pain and mental anguish before it manifests on his body, but the emotional burden is apparently very heavy. Much as I would be fascinated to study him at great length and the process by which he can soothe and calm, our immediate situation doesn’t require it – and more importantly I should not be thinking of a member of my staff as a science project.
“Kaswak was identified by Sister Matthew who caught him secretly treating several patients. It seems he was in the Outer Zone as part of a group of private ‘businessmen’, as some kind of assistant; it’s all very vague, but frankly, if he’s willing to help us – and he could at times be vital – then I’m happy to overlook any kind of shady past. At least, I will in his case.
“Both men are training well; I would happily right now put them in the field with a hypospray and a dermal regenerator. But for the moment, that’s about it. There’s a lot more required of them, and I think in a relatively short amount of time they could make the grade as junior nurses.
“Finally, number five in my troupe, is Veana Hebash, a Dordanian. She is perhaps the most affected out of the group by the invasion, having been separated from her husband and son – though she assures me that they were safely on Vekaria at the time, so out of the main line of fire thrown at Helub. Dordanians being solid, logical and dutiful she naturally pitched in when the attack took place and she saw that people needed help. Veana had just assumed that her family would also be rescued, and didn’t know that she would in fact be leaving them behind by coming aboard the Fantasy with the rest of the survivors.
“Nevertheless, she believes that to attempt to return to them now would only result in her also being apprehended, and that by being a part of the medical team and also part of the Starfleet Crew, she has more to offer and a better chance for helping to liberate them. Veana strongly believes that is what her husband would have wanted her to do, and feels sure he would be proud to know she was doing her part.
“An amazing, gutsy woman – but I do sometimes see her staring out of a porthole or smelling a blanket that reminds her of elsewhere. She’s not so tough. But she is an accomplished chemist, and pharmacist, so has an enormous amount of medical training already under her belt. Until recently she is who I had considered to be the number three medical officer around here, but not so any more.
“Up until two days ago, these few made up what I would call my medical crew. But when I returned from B’Det I found four other volunteers waiting to join us. While I was away, it seems Captain Christian made it a personal quest to boost my department’s numbers. He has been as appalled as the rest of the Command Crew at the amount of Passengers who are more than capable volunteers, some quite specialised, but not willing to help out on the ship. Having read through the entire Passenger manifest he individually approached several Passengers and requested they put themselves forward, that they were too valuable to go unused.
“It amazes and shames me to say, but out of the seven he approached, he still only managed to persuade three of them – a fourth came later of their own volition. That said, I am nonetheless very grateful of any additional staff.
“Doctor Babur Shinwari is from Janus IV colony. He is debonair and smooth – a New Afghan by birth, his parents moved out to the colony when he was a young man. At the time, opportunities to study the sciences there were far better than on Earth, and by the time he reached his middle teen years he was already studying medicine. At the risk of being sardonic about the fortune of the crew of the Fantasy, his specialisation is almost hilarious… though he assures me he is THE top proctologist on Janus IV. He certainly has all the airs and graces of an aristocrat, and I don’t doubt that he was visiting the Outer Zone with his entourage, quote: ‘just because he could’.
“Frankly, he’s a pain in the butt (no pun intended) and so set in his ways he is one of the few aboard who have been deemed as un-trainable as a member of Starfleet. But he’s bright, willing to help, and most importantly he’s a qualified medical doctor. I’ve talked it over with the Captain and Commodore, and we’ve agreed that he should retain his civilian status, so not be part of the rank and file, but still offer his services as a general practitioner for the Passengers and assist the department in triage at times of emergency. As he has no rank, he is simply known as Doctor.
“Doctor Insz is Lortusii. Thankfully he has rescinded his oath of daytime silence since the Invasion happened, though spends many of his off duty hours in silent meditation as penance. Insz is an excellent dentist, one of a team of medical representatives from Lortusii sent to the Outer Zone to explore new technologies; the Lortusii, having seven sets of teeth at various places in their mouth and throat have a large dental industry, and Insz, being half Human on his father’s side, was one of the leaders in extra-terrestrial dentistry.
“Doctor Insz is doing well in his reorientation training and seems to have a natural aptitude for Starfleet medical procedures. It shouldn’t take him long to bring himself fully up to speed.
“Doctor Hari Hoolihan is a Reflexologist and general alternative therapist. He is a bit of a jack of all trades, and not formerly trained in the sense that most doctors go to proper medical school – something he felt was less of a problem than I did. But despite getting off on the wrong foot, he has shown talent, and in his SAT he proved himself a promising member of the team. After much negotiation, we agreed that he may keep the title of Doctor, but that his duties would be restricted until he has proven competency via standard examinations and further training if necessary.
“Hoolihan was in the Outer Zone hoping to learn new alternative therapies and be among the first to take them back to the Federation. He’ll be learning a lot more besides, now. He is a good man, too – not quite as prissy as my other two doctors, helped in part that he’s a Californian and what I would classify as an a-typical Terran male. But I do expect to lock horns again in the future.
“My final new joiner was somewhat unexpected. It had become known to the crew that there was an exceptionally talented masseur on board, and he was being used increasingly to relieve aching muscles and other pent up tension and emotion.
“Zdenek Hacek is Romanian by birth, though since learning his trade in his late teens he has travelled from place to place throughout the Federation with an ever-increasing list of exclusive clients – word of mouth recommendation took him to punters willing to pay top rate for his services, and he is by all accounts as good as an Orion (though Hedrik apparently laughed for some minutes when she heard that rumour).
“I’ve yet to have the pleasure, but am assured by many that he is no charlatan. As part of my team, he will be able to provide a great amount of physical relief without the need for medical instrumentation or supplies. He is also very willing to train up as a full medic.
“In addition to this core team of nine, we are supplemented by a larger group of volunteers, some of whom are attendants and runners, storekeepers and specialist cleaners, though a few are former workers in places of medicine – lab technicians, analysis loggers and chemical waste processors. Each is being re-trained to do more hands-on work, but for now they are our support structure. Eight volunteers are working on the job as trainee medical assistants and approximately fourteen passengers have agreed to take formal medical training while they are on board, but until they are qualified as crewmen they will only provide their help if there is a major medical emergency, allowing them to totally focus on their studies.
“That’s a total of 17 permanent and 14 supplementary medics, which is a medic to hand ratio of about 1 to 20, eventually pushing up to about 1 to 15 with the support team fully qualified. Not at all bad given the circumstances.
“I heard that one young man among the passengers who is nearing cadet age has said he wants to join Starfleet, but can’t decide between medicine and science. I’m thinking he’ll go for my style of management over Lieutenant Karnak’s, and if he doesn’t, I can be very persuasive when I need to be.
“One other sooner to arrive member of my team is a volunteer for the position of Counsellor, who the Commodore has deemed should report to the CMO on this ship. The Captain won’t tell me who it may be until they’ve made up their mind, but I’m guessing it’s going to be some flouncey air-brained do-gooder with some over-the-net doctorate plucked from the Passenger contingent. Seriously though, I truly think we are way over time dealing with some people’s emotional issues, and I only hope this person has the strength of character as well as the qualifications to be successful with these cases.
“On a personal note, I am now over two months into my pregnancy. So far, it has been routine and by the book. At my request, only Wheezy will have access to my medical records, only she will examine me, and only she will know the sex of my child. I feel it’s important that the life I carry has every opportunity, including not being pre-judged even before they are born.
“My doctor assures me that I am not only fit enough to continue my duties as I would have been had I not been pregnant, but she positively encourages me to be as normal as possible – with the exception of avoiding narcotics and prolonged strenuous activities.”
O’Hara pushed the save and sign off thumb control and stored the log, adding:
“Which if I’m lucky will preclude me from any dancing tonight,” she smiled to herself, and let the smile slowly fade as she remembered the father of her unborn child whom she had first met while dancing in a nightclub on Helub.
* * *
THE HALL OF FAITHS, COMMAND SECTION, 1925 HOURS
Vedek Uleralis stood alone before the ‘main’ entrance of what had come to be known as the ‘Prophet’s Chapel’ – despite her insistence that this was not a Prophet in the strictest sense, and that even if it were then this place should be called a ‘Temple’ not a Chapel. Yet, probably because she had heard the phrase repeatedly for many days since its discovery, she too had begun to refer to it by the same name.
There was no denying the profound effect that the ‘Prophet’, or whatever it was, had on many people who ventured inside, but she was yet to be convinced of the Its true nature as It was not like any other she had encountered before – and to her knowledge, no Prophet would choose to exist in linear space, let alone on a cruise liner such as this one; it made no sense.
She stared at the irregular wall just inside the open doorway. The textured effect began to play with her eyes the longer she stared at it, but despite the rocking, pulsing sensation – which she knew was merely the physical effect of staring in one place for so long and seeing her heartbeat in her eyes – she saw nothing of significance.
Yet Its raw background presence overwhelmed her, like an invisible ocean she was continuously drowning in. Its silence clawed at her spirit. So sensitised from decades of worship and study, she felt perfectly attuned - it was as if God was inside her, but filling her with emptiness. She remained only aware of her surroundings as a Humanoid, nothing more. Since her first encounter with It, which had been unusual in itself, there had been nothing.
“Vedek?” a deep yet softly spoken voice some way behind her.
She whirled round to see a man standing behind her in partial shadow, fuzzy round the edges. ‘Could this be it?’ she wondered. Was this…Prophet finally making contact with her? He looked aged and yet youthful at the same time, glowing with self-awareness just as a contented angel would.
“Vedek, ye asked fer someone ta come urgently?” the male voice said again, and the short figure walked from out of the shadows toward her. He seemed familiar, his features sharpening.
“Vedek, are ye alright?” he asked, genuinely concerned. “D’ye need a medic?”
She then recognised him as the man who’d been rescued from the Craybourne: Lieutenant Angus McKay.
“Wh-where is the Professor?” she asked shakily, not letting on about her foolishness at wanting to believe the Prophet was finally standing there before her in physical form.
“The... ah... Lieutenant Karnak has sent me instead,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “She’s busy with other matters – an urgent matter.”
The Vedek turned away from him, as if deeply hurt and stared through the doorway once again.
“Oh,” she dropped her chin. “I see.”
McKay fixed his jaw and walked up to her side, following her gaze into the Chapel; truth was, Karnak had no time for what she considered to be distractions of the emotional and social kind – though it was partially true that earlier the Captain had given Lieutenant Karnak an important project to work on.
“Is it the Prophet?” he asked. “Has something happened?”
Uleralis couldn’t contain a short snigger, and then reproached herself, walking just inside the doorway to hide her mixed expression from him.
The Scot studied her back – she was a handsome woman, tall and athletic, probably a few years his junior, yet the robes hugging her figure appeared somewhat forlorn. He recalled that the religious robes of Bajor were only permitted to be cleaned in waters that had been blessed, at least in part, on the home world. Travelling Vedeks were renowned for taking water containers as part of their luggage in order to clean their clothes (even one drop added to non-indigenous water was sufficient). He drew his Tricorder and flipped it open.
As he expected, the energy readings around this area were vague and intermittent at best – but at least nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The Chapel was just as it appeared to be, a circular chamber with outer corridors, inner quarters and a cobbled, central area containing a small pool.
“Is it there?” the Vedek asked, then snorted. “Has it ever been there?”
McKay looked up at her; she was peering into the dark passage leading into the Chapel.
“D’ye no’ sense its presence, Vedek?” he asked in reply. She turned to him, frowning.
“Truly, I- I don’t know anymore,” she croaked, and strode quickly inside.
The junior Lieutenant hesitated for only a short moment, and then followed her. He was sure as he crossed the threshold into the immediate darkness of the passage that he felt a snap of cold air that smelled earthy and strong, like peat, and yet fresh at the same time, sweet like heather. It reminded him of his childhood home in the remote Highlands of Scotland.
Eyes adjusting to the dark, he ventured inside, turning inward and toward the open area within. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched; more than watched: scrutinised, but with no malice. It was a strange sensation of warmth and fondness.
Uleralis stood at the edge of the low rimmed pool lit by the flickering of holographic torches that flamed in five sconces spaced around the perimeter of the courtyard. McKay walked over to stand opposite her.
“Though the readings are indeterminate, I can assure ye that the Prophet, or somethin’ at least, is here, Professor,” McKay said softly, looking around at the cobbled flooring and surrounding darkened ramshackle chambers. “Somewhere.”
The Vedek looked up at him, as if hearing his voice for the first time. “It had felt so different when I first came aboard; a presence, but something almost from childhood.”
“Really?” McKay looked at her – she was describing a similar feeling he was currently having.
“Perhaps it’s just a sensory memory at the back of my mind. So vague, like a forgotten dream of idyllic youth,” she said.
“But I thought it was you who led the Captain here because ye felt the Prophet so strongly?” McKay asked.
“Yes. It was. When I learned that the Captain was considering ditching the Passenger Section I had this overwhelming clarity that something was calling me here,” she said. “Something excited, frightened and desperate. But since that first encounter, those feelings have ebbed away. I know It is still there - I feel Its existence so strongly that I could burst – but it’s now an empty sensation, a desperate, infinite silence.”
“Looking at the tricorder readings taken back then, they’re pretty much the same as now, such that they are,” McKay said. “So I wouldn’e worry that the Prophet is at risk o’ harm.”
The Vedek shook her head, looking down into the pool. “I don’t worry about that. I worry that I am not worthy of my faith. When I first stood outside the Chapel, I felt the… I felt It call to me... but when I entered and felt It touch my mind, Its voice became so angry, full of such contempt for me, instantly dismissive and demanding the presence of the Captain. All the while It wouldn’t show Itself to me. This room remained empty, and yet I felt it was full and bright and noisy at the same time. No words were actually exchanged, but the Prophet, or whatever it is, refused to acknowledge me. And ever since then, I’ve been filled with nothing but an increasingly overwhelming feeling of burden – a heavy emptiness, but no actual further contact.”
The science officer frowned. “From what I understand, many of those who have entered the Chapel have reported visions either involving a past event or a present dilemma, though it has te be said some people have experienced nothing at all. The pattern seems random, if consistently so, but are ye saying you haven’t had any visions yourself?”
“Oh, I’ve had visions,” the Vedek said. “We of the faith are all trained to meditate and experience visions. But contact with the… with It? No. I know It’s here, and I’m sure It knows I want to make contact. But for some reason It refuses to acknowledge me or communicate with me. In fact,” she giggled hollowly, “if I didn’t know better I would say It is making me feel this way on purpose.”
McKay crouched down and reached out toward the pool, then hesitated, looking up at the Vedek for confirmation.
“A pool is just a pool,” she said gesturing at the calm water. “I’m sure your tricorder will confirm that is H2O and nothing more.”
“Previous scans indicate nanoseconds of intermittent energy spikes, and this pool appears te be the main focus o’ the energy’s source,” he flipped his tricorder open again. “But I read nothing except, as ye say, a rock pool filled with water and bulkhead and plant running beneath. Although…” and the science officer became engrossed in the tricorder’s display.
The Vedek sighed and strolled over to a small, crooked bench to the side of the courtyard and flopped down onto it. “Perhaps the Captain’s offer isn’t so unappealing after all.”
“Excuse me?” McKay said, joining her on the bench. He studied her profile and sensed that in normal times she would be a happier person, and caught what looked like a moment of mischief around her dimples.
“The Captain has asked if I would take on the role of ship’s Counsellor,” she said. “He feels that I am ‘well respected’ among both the crew and the passengers and thinks that I could ‘help’ with their ‘emotional wellbeing’.”
McKay drew his lips in thought. “Don’t ye have to be qualified in psychology ta be a Counsellor?”
Uleralis turned to him in agitated contempt then saw him smiling. She momentarily smiled back. “I’m certainly not the best person for the job,” she pushed on her thighs to stand and turned to him, “but it would appear for the moment that I am the only one available.”
He smiled up at her and stood to face her. “Ye must have counselled in yer profession, and it must have been difficult trying to offer hope and salvation during the Cardassian occupation.”
She stared wide eyed at him. “You really think I’m that old?”
He was about apologise when she smiled, and he realised it was now her teasing him.
“Ye know, there is one positive thing to come out of this place for ye,” McKay walked over to the pool again.
“Oh? What is that?” the Vedek joined him.
“If ah’m not mistaken, this pool is comprised o’ the same elements o’ natural Bajoran water,” he explained, and used the tricorder to trace the water’s source. “Uh-huh, there’s a filtration system beneath the deck ta keep it fresh an’ pure. An’ that can only mean it’s the real stuff – otherwise it’d be hooked up te the Fantasy’s main water network instead.”
“Bajoran water…?” the Vedek crouched and dipped her fingers into it. It had the same silkiness of water from her home world.
“What else fer a Bajoran Temple?” he asked.
Uleralis brought her fingers to her mouth and tasted the droplets. She looked at him and smiled, causing McKay to swallow nervously. She stood once again. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
The two walked slowly from the Chapel side by side.
“Well, ye were beginnin’ te hum a little,” he grinned and she nudged him playfully. As they passed out through one of the exits the pool briefly pulsated with a shimmer of blue-green light flecked with gold and silver sparkles.
“Oh!” the Vedek stopped and swooned, just over the threshold on the outside and reached for the wall to steady herself.
“What?” McKay placed his hand on her arm, concerned she may be ill; despite his science background he didn’t enjoy dealing with issues of a medical nature.
Uleralis stared aghast, at first in shock and then relief. “I’m not sure but I… I think…” her voice trailed away. “Incredible.”
“What is it?” McKay repeated. “Vedek, is everythin’ okay?”
She turned slowly to him then smiled, patting his hand. “Let’s just say I think I’ve come to a decision for the Captain.”
Uleralis placed her soft hand over his bony knuckles and the two walked to the nearest turbolift.
* * *
JUNIOR OFFICER QUARTERS, DECK 8, COMMAND YACHT, 2010 HOURS
For the second time Acting Ensign Yip stepped across the doorway of her shared quarters into the narrow, softly lit central passage. When she had first heard that junior officers would be billeted in twos, she’d thought it would be akin to the standard Starfleet accommodations for that rank; it would certainly be a step up from the cramped dorm she had shared with five others on the USS Papillion, and probably better than the adequate but basic shared lodgings of Starfleet’s Engineering Academy. But these quarters reminded her more of the swanky high rise apartment her eldest sister had shared whilst she’d been studying on Galor IV.
The young woman walked quickly and determined down the long, fawn-carpeted hall and saw Vostaline waiting for her in the main living area ahead. Passing two diagonally opposite doorways around the mid-point (each roommate had their own spacious bedroom incorporating a desk area, an en suite bathroom and a personal storage closet) she headed for her new room mate.
At the end of the hall (where a discretely housed bulkhead doorway had dramatically revealed itself earlier, startling them during a Yellow Alert drill as they’d moved their meagre belongings into the new accommodation) the living area was dominated by a row of windows from ceiling down to seat level on the side opposite the door. Arranged in the centre of the space was a comfortable relaxation area with three wide, deep sofas surrounding a coffee table that also doubled as a holo-entertainment unit.
On the far side of the table a window seat ran beneath the bank of tall, thick, outer windows that angled in slightly overhead (as with all hull windows on the Fantasy these were also equipped with external ‘storm’ shutters, though because the window was angled, theirs were ‘roller’ style rather than a single plate).
To her left, on the forward-most side of the seating area, was an antiquated library/study area, with tall cabinets of books behind mesh covered doors, and a double desk of a shiny russet wood for both occupants to study together facing each other. To her right, at the stern end of the room, was a small dining area, comprising a sleek set of table and four chairs with overhead adjustable lamp, set beside a wide food and beverage replicator for entertaining. Also on this wall a hatch provided access to a 4 person escape pod.
Yip noticed that on the dining table there was an array of dishes, plates and bowls of unfamiliar food.
“Oh... a party?” Yip asked, surprised and a little worried by her new room-mate’s presumptive decision for a social occasion.
Vostaline sat on the edge of one of the sofas in her loose-fitting kaftan style robe, her hair braided to criss-cross around her antennae, and richly decorated slippers on her feet.
“Good evening,” she greeted her, “or should that be welcome home?” Vostaline noted Yip’s unchanging facial expression. “Not a party, no. To mark our first night in shared quarters I have prepared the Helan’s traditional meal of friendship. Replicated delicacies inherited along my people’s migrations, with a twist or two of my own.”
“Sounds interesting,” Yip said, relieved, “but I’ll just be a few minutes.” She dashed back down the hall, entered her bedroom and stripped right off on her way to the bathroom, stepped straight into the sonic shower and gave a sigh of relief as the cleansing effect of the rippling pulses worked their magic. Once satisfied she was thoroughly dirt-free she reached for a small dollop of hair conditioner and then activated the unit’s integrated blower, running her fingers through her hair. In moments her rich thick mane was loosely back in its regular style and her skin felt soft and dry. Finally she could relax.
“It does smell very good,” she called down the hall, on the way to her closet, worried that she may have appeared rude arriving one moment and dashing off the next after the Helan had gone to so much trouble. She donned regulation jog pants and long sleeved crew sweat and wandered back to the seating area, politely standing and looking across at the table’s interesting fare.
Vostaline looked with some apprehension at Yip’s naked feet – her younger brother had explained how Humans (and half Humans) enjoyed being barefoot, among other things, in their quarters.
“It’s mostly replicated, of course,” Vostaline explained, as she walked over to the table; Yip followed suit and sat down opposite the Helan. “But the Krep meat, Krep cheese and the drink are all produced by us here on the ship.”
Yip placed a roll that looked like a marinated stuffed leaf containing … something into her mouth. It was a rich and spicy meaty filling with a strong after-kick.
“Those go best after that,” Vostaline indicated sticky looking balls of a yellowy green. These too were stuffed, but with a dense, cooling paste – the contrast in flavours was delicious and she noted that the latter did indeed enhance the aftertaste of the former.
“Wow, these are amazing,” Yip scanned the rest of the table, holding another sticky ball. Vostaline pushed a tall tumbler containing a pale straw liquid toward her.
“Tinch wine,” she said with a mischievous look. “It’s very good.”
And it was – dry and a mix of apple and hop flavours, again with a hint of spice and not a little alcohol. The two young women sensed the silence between them and went to speak at the same time, then made polite laughter. The Helan insisted Yip speak first.
“I was going to ask what Lieutenant Warnerburg gave you to do today.” Yip sipped more wine and tried a cracker with it, as prompted by Vostaline; another divine culinary coupling.
Both women were serving in Engineering, Yip as an Acting Ensign, Vostaline as a Field Cadet – similar to an Ensign, but without formal Starfleet training, it was the lowest commissioned rank usually employed in wartime scenarios when mobilising civilian forces. Each were on different work teams so hadn’t seen the other since they had swiftly – and silently - moved into their quarters together before start of shift earlier in the day. Although Vostaline had said nothing on the matter at the time, Yip had overheard that the Helan’s father, Ganhedra, having already been mildly annoyed with his eldest daughter for volunteering to wear the uniform of Starfleet and be part of the crew, was now furious that she had agreed to take quarters with an alien and somewhere completely apart from her own people.
“Do you know how many faulty doors there are on this ship?” Vostaline asked soberly, recalling the monotony of the task – Yip shook her head, half smiling. “Not as many as I can repair in a day; that much is certain.”
Yip was now using the crackers to dip into a pale sandy coloured, textured paste flecked with black and white. She frowned, it tasted remarkably like-
“Hoummus,” Vostaline nodded, shrugging. “I know it’s not authentic, but since discovering it recently I think any friendship should and must withstand an amount of hoummous.”
Yip smiled as her roommate tucked into the dip herself, and then topped up both their glasses. “And you?”
“Ensign Murak’s team is overhauling the Passenger Section’s impulse engines; he gave me my own project. My job is to manually scrub the delicate sensor plant along the emergency plasma vents – much of the technology is only accessible from inside the vent conduits: hot, dirty, and cramped semi-electrified crawlways, some at the wrong angle for a biped like me. The charged dirt particles made my skin crawl, it was disgusting. And I’m only half finished on the port section so far.”
Vostaline stared into the Hummous. “It will take time to finish all these repair and maintenance tasks.”
Yip nodded, cradling her glass. “A very long time.”
Both sat in silence, staring away from each other for a moment. Again, both went to speak at the same time and smiled. “You first this time,” Yip said.
“I was reading about your Federation culture earlier,” Vostaline said, “specifically about your own culture. Family and ancestry is important to the Helan, and I was curious to understand about yours. But I am a little confused, I had thought you were of Japaneasy stock and yet your name denotes Chineasy descent?”
Yip repressed a smile at her mispronunciation but was mostly intrigued as to the Helan’s enthusiasm. She also wondered how Vostaline had found the time if she’d worked a full shift and prepared this feast, even if it was mostly replicated. “My grandfather was Chinese-American. He married a Japanese-American, and in turn their son, my father, married a native Japanese, but lived in America. Hence the surname being Chinese.” Vostaline looked a little embarrassed at her semantic faux pas. “Like many from my planet, I am of mixed race.”
“I see,” Vostaline said, apparently genuinely intrigued.
“How about you, Vostaline?” Yip asked, “I’ve noticed that your people’s skin tone and physical features can vary. Do you have other racial influences in your own family line?”
Vostaline seemed to change right in front of Yip’s eyes, a naïve, slightly tentative young woman replaced by an upright, assured adult. “My family is very proud of its pure ancestry and can trace its untainted lineage back many ages,” she said haughtily, “that is the way it has always been and always shall be for… for us… in our position.” It seemed to Yip that the Helan had forgotten herself for a moment – perhaps aware of the cultural differences between them and how it might sound to another, or possibly that she had stopped herself from saying something specific. “But… we have no racial tensions among our people, we are all Helan.”
Yip nodded and took advantage of Vostaline’s slight hesitance. “Is everything okay with you? I mean, joining us… moving in with me?”
The Helan looked apprehensive.
“It’s okay,” Yip added, “you don’t have to talk about it.”
Vostaline shook her head, appearing eager to talk to someone about it but trying to stop herself.
“My father is a good man, and a good leader. And I am his daughter and heir. I respect him greatly and will gladly do his bidding when it benefits our people for me to do so. But there are aspects of my life he cannot control,” she said, hinting at a wider conflict between father and daughter, “and as with my brother, Fraxon, I have the right to choose both where I wish to lay my head at night, and how I play my part here on this ship while we travel with you.”
Yip nodded. “Still, it’s never easy to stand up to a parent – especially a father if you are his daughter. Goodness knows I’m all too well aware of that.”
“You are?” Vostaline asked.
Yip took a long slug of the ‘wine’.
“My elder sister, Shani, is a businesswoman selling interstellar real estate. My elder brother, Nori, is a commercial designer. My parents had always said they wanted the best for their children, and although my siblings had wobbles in their achievements both were very driven in their particular field. When I came along, it was like I was going to be the one they could mould into something truly great. I studied piano and ballet from age 3 and was conversant in 10 languages, three of them non-Terran, by age 15. I knew more than most kids my age and older from the constant learning – and I have to say at the time I loved it, as I knew no better and loved the praise of doing well.
“But when I studied physics, my interest in warp technology was piqued; indeed, it was almost obsessive. I met an estranged relative at a wedding who was in Starfleet, and what I heard made me realise that a career as a Starfleet Engineer could really challenge me, expose me to things I had only imagined. I think I must have been about 12, and I can remember my parents’ reaction to my telling them that I wanted to join Starfleet.”
“They didn’t approve?” Vostaline asked, curious. “I would have thought they would be very proud?”
Yip bit back the makings of a tear and nodded. “They were… in the end. In their own way,” she nodded, “but I know they’d rather I wasn’t in uniform and in a job that could threaten my life. If my father tried to encourage me away from Starfleet once he must have tried a thousand times.”
More silence followed as the two women almost dutifully ate their way through the dishes. Yip didn’t want to think about her dead cousin on the Papillion, or about her parents and what their thoughts may be about her now; she imagined them smugly nodding knowingly, but she also imagined her mother weeping and her father trying to console her while staring up into the sky as if trying to see where his daughter might have come to rest.
Suddenly, the door chime sounded, startling both women. They exchanged a look, assuming it most likely to be Vostaline’s father, or another, to persuade her to come back to them.
“Who is it?” Yip called; the accommodation sensor grid interpreted her response to the door chime and piped her voiced question through to outside.
“It’s Hensil,” came the loud voiced response, unaware that his voice would be relayed by speaker (the comm. logic programme decreasing the volume accordingly), “from the medical team? Unadi’s here, too.” Both women exchanged another look, this time more humorously curious. “We thought you might like to come to the bar with us?”
Yip looked at Vostaline and shrugged. Vostaline looked down the hall toward the door, as if attempting to see the two men through the walls; she turned back to Yip and raised her eyebrows in question.
“Well… okay,” Yip called on behalf of the women, putting a slight smile on the other’s mouth. “But give us five minutes!”
Vostaline scowled at her, mouthing ‘Five minutes?!’
* * *
MARINA DECK, 2112 HOURS
Chief Petty Officer Able stared up at the anti-grav device. She leant to the right, and its lens flexed and followed her, squinting to find the best aperture to capture her image. Leaning to the left, it similarly followed her movements, pivoting soundlessly in mid air. She smiled. It was cute, in a retro kind of way; its main body was shaped like a mushroom cap in textured, metallic granite grey. It sported a rotational and telescopic stubby black lens nose, a jaunty dull grey ventral fin (embossed with the original SS Fantasy’s ‘f’ shaped logo, an image that the latest re-fitter had repeated in many and varied designs throughout the ship), and two sloping stunted semicircular ‘wings’. Slung underneath was a pair of long black landing pads.
Although it was designated as being an ‘All-Terrain Recording Probe’ in the inventory, she and the other crew had nevertheless immediately referred to it by its colloquial ‘Hover Cam’ nomenclature. Apparently this particular model had been designed to withstand extreme environmental conditions and act not just as a top of the range visual recording device but also a highly sophisticated remote tricorder platform – yet another example of the Fantasy’s emphasis on safety and duality of purpose in nearly all its devices.
Able smiled as she recalled how she’d come by the unit. She’d been here, on the Marina Deck in the morning when Lt Cmmdr Narli turned up just after the start of shift with the most curious entourage: a regiment of various droid units, a few bipedal, some floor based and some using anti-grav, like this one.
During the hiatus while the Fantasy had awaited either the safe return of, or news from, the Away Team who were deep inside B’Det space on a critical mission, the Andorian’s recently invested, tight-knit, and slightly brusque team of Cargo and Supply workers had made an inventory of all droid units in their survey of the vessel so far; numbering over two and a half thousand – not including the several dozen humanoid maintenance droids currently deployed to menial and more importantly non-critical cleaning and maintenance duties. Leonard and his team worked hard to give them all the once-over and eventually informed Captain Christian that all the units were fully operational.
Shortly after his return from B’Det, the former Ambassador had discussed allocation of the units with Commodore Jackson and the Captain, and every last one was distributed to the most vital operational areas of the vessel. Narli had seen fit to personally lead the groups of droids to each key area, like some kind of weird pied piper, and was working his way from the bottom of the vessel upward.
The Marina Deck and Maintenance Deck had warranted 2 Hover cams, one for each deck. In addition, they had received 10 Deck Maintenance Droids, 12 Internal Sensor Probes, 20 Anti-Grav Lighting Units, 8 Emergency Hazard Droids and 30 Hover Plates (useful for carrying tools and small loads). Able was also given 2 dedicated humanoid units to assist in general maintenance of the Marina deck’s vessels, with the possibility of more if need demanded it.
“Computer, access Personal Log, Chief Petty Officer Able,” she began, waiting for the unit to tribble – but instead, after a minor pause, a tiny red light blazed into life on the top of the unit. “This is my first log entry since coming aboard. It’s been nearly 4 weeks since I piloted the Runabout Severn onto the USS Fantasy. Because of the almost complete lack of trained staff under his command at the time, Captain Christian immediately assigned me as a line officer around the ship, relieving senior officers when required, or otherwise helping with an unending list of emergency repairs. Once things finally began to slow down, and more volunteer crew became available, I was assigned to thoroughly inventory all vessels aboard, working from the list Commanders Lirik and Struckchev had started whilst I and my shipmates had boarded the Fantasy Yacht at Erowoon Station.”
Able strolled along the bleached wood deck, the Hover Cam keeping pace slightly ahead, floating backwards so as to record her every word.
“Even after our re-fit on Captain Bel’s dry dock vessel, things were slow to improve. With many volunteers taking crash courses in their field of work on the holodecks I was required to keep up duty shifts on top of my own vehicle project. I was exhausted. At that time we were all working 14 hour shifts every day, and at moments of difficulty it was nearer 20 hours. I don’t remember ever working so hard for so many days in a row – and when I try to recall exactly where I’ve been, what I’ve done, it’s been something of a blur.
“Trainee crews have thankfully now taken up the slack, as have Bel’s men, along with the now active humanoid Maintenance Droids, all dispersed among the departments to back up the existing crew and the volunteers. It’s a far cry from a regular Starfleet vessel, with daily problems that I’ve only experienced once or twice in my career. But it has, at least, improved slightly.
“Just before our departure from Bel’s vessel, Captain Christian had allocated emergency field ranks to all volunteer crew; he’d wanted to make me an Ensign, but I couldn’t agree to it. After much digging in of heels, he agreed to keep me within the Non-Commissioned rankings, albeit still far too superior for what I’m capable of. I mean, who ever heard of a crewman being promoted to Ensign without re-training at the Academy? Granted, I’m a level 3 Crewman, and have nearly 12 years of service under my belt – but if I was that good, surely I’d have been up for promotion a lot earlier?
“I have been assigned the rather grand title of Dock Master, taking full responsibility for all vessels aboard, and running the 3 Shuttle Bays as well as the Marina Deck and the Maintenance Deck. Despite so big an area to cover, I only have a crew of 11: two each assigned to the Command Section and Command Yacht Shuttle bays; two more are assigned to the Marina Deck; and the final five are all based on the Maintenance Deck above, as practically every vessel with few exceptions requires a lot of work to bring them up to Starfleet spec. I have been promised a further 10-15 staff, but not until training is completed in about 4 weeks from now – these people are currently serving as volunteers in engineering, and Leonard cannot afford to lose them until more systems are up to standard and he can have his own staff supplemented.”
Able stepped over the doorsill of a double bulkhead ‘junction’ – there were eight of these down the length of the Marina Deck, each bulkhead door spaced four metres apart and in between them were: Jeffries Tubes port and starboard, a tool room, replicator station, head, lifeboats, staff room and emergency suit lockers. Along the whole length of the deck, square outlines in the floor indicated emergency survival compartments beneath, and circular outlines showed access to crawl ways that ran under the entire deck and connected with each individual dock. Via each tool room was a two-man elevator that went up to the maintenance deck – though it appeared the quickest access was via the Jeffries Tubes ladders.
The thirty something woman squeezed her way into the tool room, picking her way through the various bits of junk and spare parts, crossing the deck to the open style elevator which she took to the floor above. She emerged into a control booth from where the Dock mechanics could move walls and bulkheads and isolate areas for special work and specific flight configurations; it also controlled all the manual heavy lifting equipment, shields and tractor beam plant racked onto tracks on the high ceiling and walls above.
Walking out onto the deck, now secure and breathable, CPO Able continued to move forward at a slightly brisker pace, making what she planned to be a routine evening tour of the two deck spaces. She passed the many and varied small vessels mid-way through repair, panels removed, parts exposed and composite parts and tools scattered about them. Being so short staffed, she and her Team could only work days, and after a 12 hour shift of continuous grafting she’d sent them away for the evening. There was, however, a continuous echo of chinking, clunking and scraping metal and plastic as the two maintenance droids methodically sorted through various bits of debris brought up in carts from the crammed tool rooms on the deck below.
“Today was also the first time I have met up socially with the other survivors of the Van Gelder,” Able admitted. “It was an emotional reunion, and long overdue. Despite them all seeming genuinely happy to see me, it left me feeling… uneasy. The past few weeks have been so busy, so hectic; I’ve done little but focus on the jobs at hand. Seeing all of them again reminded me of what I’d lost – what we’ve all lost.
“It moved me greatly to hear that every last one of them had volunteered for duty aboard the Fantasy. Those who are too young to do so are all about to start attending a school that has been set up by Commodore Jackson along with a group of parents, former teachers, and some experts who wanted to help, all be it not in the more needed star ship duties. Together they will oversee the education of those up to college age.
“In a separate training venue located on two broad levels set atop the dorsal hull of the Passenger Section, Captain Christian is the ‘Principal’ of what he and the Commodore are calling Starfleet School, where they hope to train those of cadet age into useful roles for the ship. Graduates will be offered a field commission of Ensign in their chosen specialist field.
“As I understand it, there are nearly a dozen survivors of such an age aboard, including Heather Mason, one of my party, who lost both her parents when the Van Gelder was destroyed.”
Able smiled again. “Mason’s a sassy kid, and she’s determined to become a Security officer.”
The CPO had reached the end of the Maintenance Deck, where the central ‘runway’ split port and starboard and continued on out of sight around a very wide boat-shaped floor-to-ceiling central structure; she opened a pressure doorway in the side and entered. “My office is located at the bow end of the Maintenance Deck. I’ve learned that when in what the computer files call ‘Full Launch Mode’, the entire deck becomes much like an old-style aircraft carrying launch deck, with vessels poised to the sides, and the central passage for rapid and successive egress. My office serves as Launch Control and can open this deck’s large bay doors which are situated just a little more forward, both port and starboard.”
Able skirted around yet more tools and crates and desks piled high with boxes and cases, and continued to walk forward, toward the prow. She passed through a larger open plan office area, similarly laden, into a corridor beyond with doorways either side. At a cross-junction, two turbolifts were placed to her left and right. Continuing onward through the corridor ahead she passed more doors left and right before finally emerging into a large office-come-waiting area. Three doors were opposite. Taking the central door she walked down a narrow corridor at the end of which was yet another doorway. This split apart to reveal a reasonably sized open living area with other rooms off to the left and right.
Ahead, a line of chest high windows indicated that this was the very prow of the ship, almost at it’s lowest point – but where, many levels above, the decks, such as the Purser’s Apartments, narrowed to a ‘point’ at the prow, in this lower part of the vessel the hull was flatter, mostly to accommodate the large triple set of navigational deflectors just a few decks above, and in part to house the port and starboard launch doors. “Behind the office area is my Quarters. They’re resplendent compared to what I’ve had in the past, though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel just a little vulnerable all the way down here on my own and at the very front of the ship.”
She was interrupted by her commbadge tribbling. “Computer, end Log and file.” The computer b-b-b-b-beeped, oddly. The commbadge repeated its tribble; she silenced it with a single tap. “Crewman Able, go ahead.”
“Demoting yourself already, Chief?” the heavily accented deep voice boomed out of thin air with an attempt at humour that sounded more like sarcasm.
“Apologies, Commander Struckchev. How may I help you?” she said, finding her tone genuinely pleased to speak with him.
“I realise it’s late, but I wondered if I could see you briefly,” he sounded like he was being overly nice, she thought; presumably because he wanted a favour.
“Yes, Sir, where should I meet you?” she asked, before she’d even considered an alternative reply, and she felt a flutter in her belly.
“I’ll come to you,” he said conspiratorially, his bass tone causing the hairs on the back of her neck to prickle. “If you would please meet me at the airlock leading to the Jack Herer, say in about five minutes?”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” she said, realising she had moved to stand in front of a mirror. A playfully smiling face looked back at her and she giggled in response. But as she did, she looked directly into her own eyes, and a tumble of thoughts quickly pricked her conscience and sagged her features as she remembered all those shipmates and friends she’d lost aboard the Van Gelder.
* * *
DECK 6, COMMAND YACHT, 2204 HOURS
Reb sat in his quarters, his instincts wrestling with his feelings. His life had transformed in such a short space of time and events had unfolded at such a pace that until now he’d had little time to sit and reflect on the ramifications of his decision to take Commodore Jackson’s offer of money in return for a year’s service aboard the Fantasy.
Weeks ago he’d lost his Pod and everything he owned, he’d been thrown into a conflict, tens of thousands of light years from the region of space he called home, completely cut off and, worse, on the run from a powerful and ruthless enemy with a group of mismatched refugees aboard little more than a clapped-out ancient ‘floatel’.
In the high adrenalin events that had followed the K’Tani’s re-invasion of Qovakia Reb had found himself caught up in the thick of the activity aboard the Fantasy mainly because of his obvious skill at piloting vessels though also in part due to his albeit fleeting Starfleet experience; and for that painfully short-lived and forgettable episode in his life he was fully expected to do his bit.
Initially he had done just that, and without question, for the grave situation demanded it – if only for his own personal survival. But then the enormity of the situation sank in: the impossibility of the task ahead of them, the threat of prolonged hardship, possibly decades long, and not least the reek of grief and woe that seemed to seep into him from the bereaved and separated who lurked in the ship’s below decks. He’d become depressed and felt doomed to be captured and killed by the K’Tani in that order, and probably after a generous amount of agonizing physical and mental torture – unless he was killed in the first instance.
But just when he had been on the verge of abandoning ship, he’d been made an offer by the Commodore: probably more wealth than he could ever have dreamt of accruing in ten years, to be given to him after just one year’s service. When he agreed to stay, he let the Commodore believe that it was the money that had persuaded him.
The truth was that once the news of his intention got out, Commander Lirik and others had appealed to him in a way that he had never been addressed before. He’d never known such unconditional faith, and he was sure that it was not just desperation on their part at the possibility of losing a contributing and skilled member of the crew, but rather a genuine concern for his wellbeing and a reaction to the possibility of not having him around.
It didn’t stop him from dismissing them all and sticking doggedly to his guns. But when the Commodore made the offer, it gave him the perfect excuse to agree without admitting his true feelings on the matter.
And so he had been given the field rank of Lieutenant, the position of Leading Helmsman aboard the Fantasy, requiring him to pilot the ship and manage a small team of trainee Helmsmen and smaller ship pilots. His role automatically made him one of the Command Crew and, as the Captain’s confirmed chain of command cited, he was eighth in line to the centre seat. He had an office on Deck Two, one of only three others besides the Captain’s, and was billeted with not just one, but two living quarters; this one, effectively his Duty Quarters aboard the Yacht, and also an apartment in a private avenue on the Passenger Section.
He’d thought he had played it very cool in taking on such responsibility, and without even thinking he’d adopted a more professional tone and attitude, though he was still trying his best to prove to everyone that he was up to the job. Although the Fantasy had seen little action after Erowoon, Reb found himself keeping very busy with all the additional training to bring him up to spec, and working with the Commodore at getting his small team in order, such that it was. Only several individuals had been identified so far, though he’d yet to interact with them as each was currently undergoing Starfleet’s fast-track basic training programme that Commodore Jackson and Captain Christian had devised.
It wasn’t until they’d reached B’Det space that he began to think more about what he was actually doing here. He’d found himself staring at his reflection around the ship, trying to match the image of the man in the uniform with what he felt inside. And this slow trip through Nhori Chua Lh’Anhna space seemed to open a chasm of doubt about his change of fortune once more: was this really what he would have been like if he’d successfully passed through the Academy and served in Starfleet? It seemed the polar opposite of how his life had turned out, and he couldn’t seem to quieten the voice at the back of his head telling him he wasn’t up to the job, and that he was sure to screw something up in good time. Also, despite having colleagues who cared about him, he didn’t exactly have any close friends – and although Lirik had been the closest thing to a buddy, he was so loved-up with his Helan boyfriend of late that they’d barely exchanged greetings.
Reb cast his eye around the mood-lit main living room of his quarters: modern, clean lines and eclectic but sparse artwork on the walls and surfaces. The outside wall was curved, creating a wide sweeping set of ‘bay’ windows which afforded him a 180 degree view from forward to aft on the port side. Forward of the central room was the master bedroom with roomy en suite and an over-sized storage closet. To the aft was a separate head and sonic shower, a spare room, a kitchenette, access to a six man escape pod and a holographic box room equipped with top line Stellar Cartography functionality.
This billet was one of only a dozen Senior Officer Suites located in the Command Yacht Section on Deck 6; the rest of the deck was taken up with leisure and training facilities for the ship’s executive staff. It was impressive, and he realised he could have fitted the floor space of his lost Pod inside these luxurious quarters probably three or four times over.
Perched on the edge of his bed, he held the padd in his hands, staring at it like a child would at his un-eaten greens having been told to take just one more mouthful before leaving the table and wondering how long the stand-off would last before either he won out or was forced to succumb.
In spite of all that he could have said about his experiences of or thoughts about his time in the Outer Zone, Reb felt lost for words. Regardless, he jabbed the record key with a dejected thumb, thinking it may just come naturally.
“Personal Log, Stardate… Computer, insert today’s Stardate here.” He paused to wait for the computer response, though it was not the tweet-bleep he’d expected but rather a stuttering blip sound. Perhaps because of the odd sound, but most likely because he was still grappling with an amount of personal inner conflict, he could find nothing useful or interesting to say. He couldn’t bring himself to express his feelings out loud and tried to think of something, anything
Eventually he pressed the cancel command, face crestfallen, muttering: “I can’t even do this right.”
The door chime sounded, startling him. He cast the padd aside and walked to the main entrance to his quarters, pressing the open door command.
“Lirik…” Reb was taken aback by his visitor.
The plump Englishman held up what looked like a wooden drumstick with a mischievous grin.
“Same to you,” Reb said.
“Take it, it’s yours,” Lirik said. Reb noticed that the Commander was holding another baton in his free hand, of slightly darker wood and tapered to a blunt point, more like a chopstick, but thicker and a bit gnarled.
“I-I don’t know what to say,” Reb said mockingly, taking it.
“Oh just shift yourself, Lieutenant,” Lirik said, moving off down the corridor.
Reb glanced around – the deck was empty of course. “Where are we going?” he asked. “To the one armed drumming championship?”
Lirik paused and turned, raising his stick high in the air – the tip flashed a brilliant white light. “We’re breaking into the Castle of Mordrani. Mwa ha ha haaa!”
“Oh, please,” Reb sagged slightly. “Do you not know what time it is?”
Lirik fixed his jaw then slowly walked over. Reb felt his skin bristle from the closeness of Lirik’s personal environment shield, though he could tell that the Commander was doing his best to keep his Medusan aura contained, thus minimising any feelings of nausea Reb might have.
Reb softened his tone, tried to relax into sensible explanation mode. “Look, Commander, you may not have to report for duty in the morning, but I do; maybe another time, eh?”
The Commander frowned harshly. “I’m really disappointed in you,” he said, looking Reb down and up. “Call yourself a Ferengi.”
“Half Ferengi. Look, why don’t you go and play with your boyfriend instead,” Reb suggested, proffering the baton, realising too late the bitter note in his voice.
“Already did,” Lirik said deadpan. “He’s sleeping it off.”
The Commander’s satisfaction at being right about why Reb had been slightly aloof of late didn’t make him feel any less bad about spending nearly all available time with Fraxon recently. The Helan was insatiable for his company and more, something that had only happened to Lirik once before in his life, so it was hard to resist, even though so far he’d only committed himself physically. But he was also conscious of the fact that he felt a kindred friendship in Reb and he didn’t want to lose that. This late night stint on the holodeck was an impulse but one he thought Reb might appreciate amid all the constricting rules and regulations of his newfound Starfleet life.
Reb quenched a leer, still holding out his arm. “Anyway, thieves don’t use wands, you should know that.”
“It’s not a wand exactly,” Lirik took the drumstick and studied it. “It’s an enchanted drumstick. Basically gives a non-wizard 12 goes at magic. Cost me 12,000 skill points to create, which just about cuts me back to a Level One wizard.”
“And you did that for me?” Reb asked, knowing how dedicated holo D&D players such as himself and Lirik would always protect their accumulated skill points to the last. He reached out to take it back but Lirik withdrew his arm slightly.
“Don’t get soppy about this,” Lirik cautioned. “I need your skills to get us into the castle undetected. If we’re successful we get to battle the gremlin hordes, save the beautiful princess and obtain the Sacred Stone of Skar.”
“There’s a princess?” Reb’s interest was piqued and he snatched the drumstick back.
“Only until midnight,” Lirik started to walk off again, “then she turns into a flesh eating wraith.”
“Flesh eating sounds good,” Reb said to himself, sauntering slowly after.
* * *
CHIEF ENGINEER’S DUTY OFFICE AND QUARTERS, PASSENGER SECTION, 2255 HOURS
Lieutenant Commander Leonard stood with his back to his desk, peering down through the angled square observation window onto the main deck of the Passenger Section’s large and theatrical Engine Room below. There, several metres underneath, five crewmen in the black and tan jumpsuits of the engineering department were standing almost motionless, intently monitoring key subsidiary systems on the various retro style dials and gauges, porthole viewing screens and banks of tiny flashing coloured bulbs. The single figure in an officer’s uniform was the only person scurrying about, mostly between the main matter-antimatter controls, the plasma relays control and the power distribution board – mostly because he was the only person present qualified to operate them.
Per Cashel, who once served as an engineer in Vekaria’s small fleet, had been made a full Lieutenant by the Captain and Commodore and given the role of night shift Duty Chief Engineer. The native Vekarian was almost twice Leonard’s age; born just before the original K’Tani occupation of Qovakia and raised under their constant tenure; he didn’t know true freedom until late in his life. Cash, as he’d become known by his shipmates, typified most Vekarians – and they weren’t as oppressed as first thought.
Over the weeks that followed the Invasion and their flight from Qovakia, Leonard and the rest of the Command Crew had come to realise that the K’Tani, while they had ruled supremely in Qovakia, had also allowed the vast majority of the people they controlled to carry on with their daily lives pretty much as normal; or at least that’s how it looked on the surface.
So it was that Cash had grown up in the farming region of Vekaria, closely bonded with the land, respectful of authority and well educated – but a farmer’s life was not for him; since playing with toy fighters as a boy, he’d dreamt only of joining Vekaria’s fleet one day and serving as a top pilot.
At the fleet’s officer training school, he showed a talent for engineering systems over and above flying, so became one of the elite corps of Second Pilots – a hotshot pilot’s wingman, artillery officer, navigator and engineer all rolled into one. It was of course a fleet that ultimately was under K’Tani’s control, but in reality went about its normal everyday tasks of training, policing Vekarian space and lending a hand when the occasional transport accident or natural disaster struck.
It wasn’t until Cash was much older that he and his peers began to learn of the K’Tani’s cruelty and true character. Like nearly all Vekarian adults the armed forces also wished for the end of the occupation, but conceded that it was highly unlikely to happen even if every man, woman and child came forward. So until the opportunity presented itself they had to maintain the pretence of submission and do whatever was their master’s bidding and just hope it wouldn’t last too long. While Vekarians could live fairly confident of a peaceful existence, it was not completely without restriction – and any kind of protest or action against the K’Tani would be dealt with swiftly and without mercy.
But when the Ore joined the haphazard and inconsistent Resistance, things rapidly began to change; almost as soon as the rumours reached the people he and everyone else had started to feel hopeful, they wanted it so much. And just several years later, Cash, along with a large contingent of his colleagues, stole all the vessels and arms they could and joined the fight deeper in Qovakian space and beyond. They paid a high price – many loved ones they’d left behind were killed as an example to the mutineers and other surviving relatives were used as leverage to try and get others to give themselves up; those Vekarians that attempted to do so were killed by their cohorts for their cowardice, and for possibly exposing the rest of the group, though each and every one of their killers sympathised. Amid the public executions of the innocents by the K’Tani, Cash lost both parents, two brothers, a sister, a sister in law, and two nieces. It was in their name he remained with the Resistance and fought on to the bloody end.
Once the occupation was finally over, he had returned to Helub rather than Vekaria, as there was little for him on his home planet – in addition to his family’s murder, the ancestral home and land had been levelled and a municipal facility built on top. He was honoured, several times over, and compensated for his loss, and he was even offered a teaching role in the military’s engineering academy – but he had seen enough fighting and warfare, and had chosen instead to become a freelance plasma engineering specialist for hire working throughout the massive spaceport of Helub. He had never considered retiring completely, and had found some sense of contentment in helping others and just going about his business in the bowels of the moon.
So it was he’d found himself working on a faulty power grid intersection beneath the Old Fort when the K’Tani returned. Luckily for him he was walking wounded, suffering from concussion, and so he’d made the flight from Vekaria with the rest of the survivors – though he hadn’t been able to offer his services to Leonard until some time later due to complications with his original injuries and lack of medical supplies to help him. And even following Erowoon and his subsequent recovery it was only after proving himself in his SAT and pleading with Leonard to persuade O’Hara to give him a clean bill of health that he was finally put to work.
Cash was a tall, broad man who didn’t look his age. He was a popular mature figure among Leonard’s team and commanded a natural respect the German could only yearn for. Yet, Leonard’s relentless actions in doing everything to keep the ship moving and its occupants alive had given him all the authority he needed; his team loved the fact he was a grafter, he’d heard, and no one thought it odd that the Captain seemed to spend so much time helping him out… at least, no one except for Leonard.
The Vekarian Lieutenant suddenly stopped what he was doing and looked up at the observation window, apparently sensing his superior’s gaze. Caught unawares, Leonard froze. Cash smiled and waved, allowing the Commander to nod back rigidly and turn away. Flushing red, Leonard reached over and activated the privacy screen which blackened the observation window with a dark hue – though still allowed him to see out, as if through heavily tinted glass. When he did, Cash was on the other side of Engineering, it seemed dealing with a query from one of the crew.
Leonard walked round his desk and across the office into a side room that contained a compact living area, personal store and bathroom. As was the case with several senior officer positions it seemed the Fantasy also proffered a number of accommodations for its Chief Engineer. Leonard had standard senior officer quarters on the Command Yacht. He also had a resplendent suite in the upper starboard decks of the Passenger Section big enough for a family. Yet it was here he felt most comfortable in his compact duty quarters right on top of the Passenger Section’s Main Engineering. A doorway on the opposite side of the office led into a short, narrow lobby with just enough room for an assistant and for informal meetings (being a passenger-oriented ship, the SS Fantasy required most Department Heads to have an administrative assistant, and the design of certain office areas reflected this). A further doorway led directly onto a landing between two flight of stairs that went up to a storage, rest room and canteen level above and also straight down onto the Main Engineering deck – he could be at his post with just a few moments’ notice and that appealed to his work ethic sensibilities; the German had always felt happier in his job than in socialising.
There were other quarters locally, for more engineering crew, but going against the Fantasy’s designated billeting, his engineering team had opted to take quarters with the rest of the survivors and passengers in the main cabins many decks above. That suited his preference for privacy and these quarters were sufficiently isolated to ensure total peace and quiet.
The living area was divided by a screen; on one side, a table and chairs for dining, a small desk and workstation, a replicator and soft seating; on the other a large bed with storage compartments and a small walk-in dressing area. The bathroom was through a push-door near to the bed, and provided a luxury sonic shower, toilet, sink and hair-styling module – presumably his predecessor, or the intended occupant, had hair that required a bit of style management. Leonard hadn’t had the nerve to try it for himself, so stuck instead to his ritualistic regime of hair control, although its length was now almost to his shoulders.
Quickly the Commander shed all his clothes and walked his pale, golden hued sinewy body into the sonic shower. The waves were particularly soothing on the massage settings, though the after effects did seem to leave his hair partially charged with static; a quick comb-through of all purpose grease took car of that. Refreshed, he walked back to his lounge area, catching a glimpse of his Arian appearance in the room’s mirror with his slicked back look, and sat naked in one of the armchairs, picking up his personal padd from the low side table. Through force of habit, Leonard selected isolated recording mode, allowing him the opportunity to make any edits before firing through to the Fantasy’s computer network for uploading.
“Chief Engineer’s Log.
“All essential Engineering services are now operating at 92% throughout the ship; in total, that’s about 75% of all Engineering services on board. Under the Captain’s directive, I have left the repair of all remaining essential services in the hands of my deputies and crew under his command, allowing me to focus entirely on the non-essential services, which have been mostly ignored since we came aboard.
“I have left all Holographic systems to Lieutenant Hedrik, who is more than capable…pause,” suddenly self-conscious, the Commander walked to his dressing area where he’d stored his ration of clothing, and found a pair of standard issue briefs, put them on and returned to his chair.
As he did, he thought about Hedrik – how she’d come on to him within days of fleeing Helub, how she’d cleverly avoided any punishment for attempting to rob the Starfleet facility just before the attack by beguiling the senior staff and proving herself invaluable, in spite of Souveson’s initial protestations; and how she had managed to impress everyone enough to land herself a substantial role in the command team.
But where he had first thought of her as nothing more than a thief and a reprobate, trying to use all her sexuality and appeal as an Orion slave woman to influence her fate – and in those respects, from first hand knowledge, she appeared unparalleled among the female crew – she had subsequently proven herself to be a remarkable engineer, and her specialist knowledge of holographic and transporter systems was beyond his or even the Captain’s. On any other ship, he was sure Captain Christian would have appointed her Deputy Chief Engineer.
Although Leonard had seen her occasionally use similar female tactics with the Captain and other males, she had in recent weeks significantly toned it down. Indeed, it appeared that once she was accepted as a useful and capable member of the crew, basically after the SATs and receiving her field commission of Lieutenant JG, she had focused her energies entirely on proving herself in her work. And on a vessel such as the Fantasy she was kept very busy indeed. As an officer she had a long way to go – her tardiness earlier proved that – but subsequently checking work schedules he’d learned that Hedrik had only arrived late because she was completing a crucial stage of repair to the internal force field grid around deck one.
Leonard still had the image imprinted in his mind of her naked, voluptuous green form on the shag pile carpet in the ship’s Computer Core control room, and it was an image that often played in his imagination, sometimes even when he was in her presence. He was impressed by her, and if he admitted it, a little in awe of her – certainly he was infatuated with her body, and resigned himself to the fact that somehow her Orion pheromones had ingrained into his psyche, so that whenever he was in her presence they made him swoon; often he would have to guard against his imagination fuelling his more base reactions as he often found himself staring at her bosom.
He picked the padd up and continued his log. “One of my first investigations into the un-explored secondary systems was brought to my attention by the Lieutenant when she identified the internal Emergency Transport System. Throughout the ship there are special transporter locations – mostly in the areas away from emergency evac stations, lifepods and shuttle bays which would have been frequented by the Passengers on board. These devices are easily identified by clear and distinctive signage and are usually in the form of either handles recessed into walls, or ‘plates’ on the floor bearing the ‘F’ insignia of the Fantasy.
They’re all in a variety of spaces: carpeted corridors, marbled foyers, painted decking and in all three sections of the ship; at first we’d considered the ones on the floor as elegant insignia branding. Each, when grasped or stood upon automatically links to the Emergency Transport System, and if the sensors acknowledge an urgent situation, such as decompression, gas, lack of atmosphere or in alert situations such as an Abandon Ship scenario, then the ETS automatically transports the individual to the safest location. They work much like pattern enhancers, but additionally use local holographic projectors as instantaneous target locks making the beam-out end of the transport faster than standard. The ETS also extends to Commbadge Protocols, which were identified some weeks earlier by Commander Lirik.
“The use of the Commbadge for the crew of the Fantasy is more extensive than on other Starfleet vessels. Tapping the badge in a particular sequence prompts specific actions: for example, when off-ship, tapping a badge twice in quick succession where possible automatically activates a transporter lock and alerts the Transporter Chief without the need of contacting the ship first – tapping it twice again cancels the action. Pressing and holding the badge once routes an open comm. channel directly to the Bridge; pressing and holding twice activates a homing beacon; and pressing and holding three times works as a homing signal that leads to other communicators – four times takes you to your designated transport, all useful on away missions. And three taps in quick succession is part of the ETS, beaming the individual or object immediately to the safest location.”
Leonard picked up his tricorder and flipped it open. Entering several commands he then placed it, open, onto the side table, pointing at the opposite wall. As he did the tricorder projected a large display onto the plain bulkhead, showing the main power diagnostic for the entire ship. The German often liked to display this image during off hours as it allowed him to feel at ease that things were running smoothly. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Cash or the rest of his senior team, but the Fantasy was old, despite the many re-fits. And one weak area across the ship had been its power distribution; even in the first couple of days it had caused the death of one of their number. Scanning the numerous readouts in several moments he was satisfied that all was well for the time being.
“Another recent discovery was an additional transport system supplementing the main Turbolift cars. On many decks at the outermost part of the ship there are airlocks that access the Travel Car system. These are lozenge-like passenger cars that travel on the outside of the ship across a network of express lines criss-crossing the port and starboard hulls of the ship, though they also have internal docking stations at either end of the ship for maintenance and storage. Only about a half dozen cars in all, they provide the ability for groups to travel at speed from one end of the ship to another. Though recommended only for use at sub-light speeds, it is possible to utilise them during warp.
“Perhaps the biggest discovery of all is the way in which the ship can divide and sub-divide. Originally we had thought there were only 3 sections to the Fantasy: the Passenger, Command and Command Yacht sections. We then learned of a not insignificant 4th section, that of the ‘good ship’ Starlight. This is a small, schooner-like vessel that lifts from out of the Starlight Bar on the Passenger Section’s dorsal plane. It’s narrow, elongated, tapered hull design is much like a conventional ocean-going vessel, the reason being that it is specifically designed for that purpose – though it is capable of space and atmospheric flight, transporting passengers directly from orbit onto the planet below. Once in the water it deploys masts and sails – although these can also be kept housed and the ship can act as a sub-aqua vessel as well. It’s compact, and adequately armed, requiring a crew minimum of three; it’s capable of transporting two dozen passengers with a crew of 10 comfortably, if rather cosily, and provides all essential systems along with an amount of luxury.
“But there is in fact a much larger section that can be detached – the entire Marina and Maintenance Decks, along with a small section of upper decks at its fore and stern. According to the ship’s manuals it is referred to as the Marina Platform – and was intended mainly for extreme emergencies where an orbiting dock or triage would be required, the latter requiring the Maintenance Deck become a huge casualty ward along with operating rooms.
“We know of the ship’s Safari Launch, used for land-based excursions, but in addition on the same deck, we discovered a half dozen touring vessels for short range excursions, and a couple of these designed for smaller groups and longer trips of up to several months. It seems all these particular vessels were part of a small franchise that operated within the vessel, offering additional ‘tours’ for the more adventurous.
“As we know, the hull structure of the ship is dense, thick and ‘heavy’ – designed to withstand explosions of great magnitude. It is this Engineer’s belief that the ship could survive a sustained assault using photon torpedoes and endure with some sections intact. But what we have also learned is that most of the Passenger birth sections are effectively warp-capable ships in their own right. Huge sections of the ship can detach, each alone capable of supporting the lives of most of the ship’s compliment. Each is comprised of two levels, and all have a small ‘cockpit’. With each containing a dormant warp engine, the initial ship’s energy would be supplied via the ‘mother’ ship in the form of stored plasma and impulse hyper drive reactors would provide a rapid departure if necessary.
“In such catastrophic situations all travel cars and turbolfits can be ejected and serve as life pods for several days or possibly weeks. There are dozens of approved shelters across the ship, but the main one is the entire Holopark – which also has its own impulse engines and cockpit. It’s believed that, much like the Emergency Bridge, the Holopark could withstand a catastrophic and fatal explosion, though possibly not a core overload; the walls are two and a half times denser than conventional hulls and it’s all reinforced with an internal super-structure.
“An unusual request has come from Lieutenant O’Hara via the Captain concerning another non-essential area. Among a number of cargo palettes that had been discovered during the initial entrée into the Hidden Decks was found a stasis storage chest containing hundreds of specimens of both common and rare plant species used in the production of many mainstay drugs and also powerful narcotics. The ship’s Outside Observatory is to be turned into a specialist medicine garden where these plants will be grown and nurtured. The project has been designated the title of ‘Snoop Garden’, as it’s intended the garden will roam the vessel’s surface, much like the travel cars, but searching for the best light source or the darkest spot, as appropriate. The garden will maintain stocks of raw ingredients from which the Medical department can extract the vital elements and replicate a wide range of medicines and treatments.
“Aside from these recent discoveries there is little else to report at present, though there are many outstanding sub systems still to investigate; I am to complete this by the time we reach Carifoura. End log.” Leonard walked over to his desk and sat down. “Computer, open Personal Log.”
“W-w-working,” the female voice replied. Leonard flinched at the anomaly and made a mental note to report it to the Captain in the morning – it not being something in his remit currently.
“Record supplemental and tie in to last recorded Chief Engineer’s Log,” he said, and the computer chirped in affirmation. Picking up a large display padd he walked back to the seating area, and compared details with the tricorder projected display. Satisfied, he sat down and continued to scroll through consecutive data reports on the large padd. “Although I understand why the Captain is using me to overhaul the Fantasy’s subsidiary and support systems, I can’t help but feel I am being somewhat side-lined away from the more crucial work still being carried out.
“Although the Captain welcomes my input, in reality I am so busy elsewhere on the ship that I can only read reports concerning other engineering activities to find out the current status, and as a result I feel… disconnected from my role as Chief Engineer. According to the most recent data, it would seem that we are only a matter of days away from completing work on the independent functionality of all three sections; simply put, we will soon be able to operate autonomously, each of the 3 sections of the ship operating as separate entities – but as this ship’s Engineering Chief, I feel it should be my responsibility to ensure that all such systems are up to spec and fully tested.”
Leonard placed the padd to his side and sighed heavily. He walked back to his office and peered down through the shaded observation window. Cash was explaining, it seemed, an aspect of the matter-antimatter reactor to a female crewman, though his hand placed in the small of her back seemed to convey an ulterior motive. The German officer half smiled to himself – he would never have the gall to try such an approach, but he genuinely applauded those who did.
“The truth is,” he walked back to his quarters, shed his underpants and sprawled naked onto the crisp, cool sheet. “The Captain is the better engineer. I am competent, and I probably have more in-depth knowledge of old and out-dated systems than he does, which is exactly why I am doing what he has asked of me and he is taking a personal lead on the more crucial engineering systems. End log. Extinguish lights.”
*
HOLODECK 4, DECK 25, COMMAND SECTION, 2310 HOURS
Commodore Jackson peered out from the darkness gazing into the beam of harsh white light cast down from above the centre of the room, her eyes fixed on the unmoving figure illuminated within: a holographic representation of the Rogue android Pim, the slight, ‘Bajoran’ ‘girl’ dressed in leggings, pretty dress with dainty sash and bows, standing upright and perfectly proper with flowing golden hair held back by an alice band and an expression like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
The veteran officer circled the character slowly in the shadows, drinking in the girl’s every feature. As she spoke, her voice rasped a little deeper than usual from over-use and not a little exhaustion. In spite of being on restricted duty, the Commodore had been determined to re-double her efforts in working on a strategy that would help in the long-term objectives of liberating their people from the K’Tani and ultimately returning home. Such matters required nothing short of complete attention to detail scrutinising every aspect of what had passed so far – analysis of such details could be invaluable in throwing light on possibilities.
“It’s been a short time since our lives changed forever. Weeks, long arduous weeks, have opened such a chasm between how things are now and how they once were that memories seem dulled, faded.
“Regardless of how intent I am on the vital matters of seemingly every waking hour, still my thoughts frequently return to Vekaria and to Helub in the days before the K’Tani invasion.
“There are still a great many unanswered questions.
“But one that may have been answered concerns this Rogue who infiltrated our number. We had wondered how, in the few short weeks following the Federation’s first contact with the Qovakians, the K’Tani had managed to plan and craft one of these androids into the form of a Bajoran girl and make her so convincing that she could be placed unnoticed among our people.
“Subsequent to our meeting Captain Bel we learned that most likely Pim was an existing Rogue in the shape of a small Qovakian female who was physically altered to appear as a Bajoran girl – Bel confirmed that Rogues took the form of a whole range of species, ages, sexes and sizes although their population has been all but decimated.
“The unanswered question still remains: for what purpose?
“The most logical explanation may have been so that she could gain access to the Visitors from the other side of the wormhole in order to gain information about us in advance of the K’Tani attack – perhaps she was one of many Rogues on such a spying mission to find out our individual capabilities?
“But why choose a child to do that? While it’s true that she would be less obvious as an operative, her access to useful intelligence would have been very limited, even if she was trained in covert intelligence and information extraction. I believe if that was her true mission then she would have separated from us once the Invasion took place. But instead she stuck with us. Perhaps her orders changed.
“But if spying was no longer the reason, then what was? The longer she was with us, the more her true personality came forth; looking back I see that was clear if I had bothered to see her with more discerning eyes. But despite my own ignorance in assuming Pim was anything but what she appeared to be, surely she or the K’Tani would have reasoned in advance of the mission that with prolonged exposure her true colours would eventually show – in which case one would assume they had planned for a mission of limited duration.
“Lieutenant O’Hara has confirmed that this strange child-agent was most certainly among the group of children she was treating for Vekarian flu when the attack took place, but that’s the earliest recollection and so presumably the chosen point of insertion.
“O’Hara can’t remember how she came to be there or who had brought her. No one else remembers seeing a Bajoran child in the Outer Zone before the Invasion, not least the Bajorans among our ship’s complement who would surely have noticed one of their own young. So it seems that minutes before the K’Tani attack she walked right into the base and joined the children for the flu vaccination; presumably timed to coincide with the attack given that the crèche the group were in provided shelter from the heavy assault.”
Jackson turned on her heel and slowly circled around the innocent looking child in the other direction. She had the option of choosing an image of Pim when her true characteristics were revealed, or even later when she had been impaled with the Bat’Leth, but had decided to choose the more innocent infiltrator character as ultimately she had been the biggest threat.
“O’Hara confirmed that none of the children would have been scanned before the harmless, generic hypospray application, so presumably Pim was designed to take her medicine like a good android girl.
“Whatever the reasons behind her presence, she managed to move amongst us unnoticed and mingled with a great many of our number for weeks without question, although ironically the subsequent feedback from those who had known her suggested a host of eccentricities which were shrugged off as either Bajoran quirkiness or symptoms of post traumatic stress.
“The Bajorans she had spent time with aboard the Fantasy never suspected she was anything but a native, though she played the part of the little orphan quite well as they could not get her to divulge more than a few vague details about her family, presumed killed or missing on Helub. The Vedek Uleralis stated that although she had seen Pim hanging back from the other Bajorans during prayers and meditations, each time she had tried to speak with her the child had either run away or miraculously disappeared although the Vedek also commented that there were many occasions that she had noted her absence from the others entirely.
“It is chilling to think that Pim played her role so very convincingly, that she passed as one of us very probably having only rudimentary details to work from, although she would have presumably been a quick study also.
“But it’s not just her motivation that l question. I also wonder why she didn’t act sooner – why did she leave it so long?
“Other members of the Command Crew have suggested dozens of actions they would have taken in order to bring the ship about or to a halt had they been in her place. And yet she did none of these. During our initial flight from Vekaria she had ample opportunity to sabotage the ship when we knew so little about it. And also when the Ere struck nearly all of us down she could have acted then. But she didn’t. Why was that?
“We have deduced that the K’Tani Holographic Programme incursion was not of Pim’s making. Scans taken of the isolinear rod responsible, and of the computer core when it was being reassembled, indicate the rod was put in place several years ago, just after the K’Tani’s were overthrown.
“I guess it is remotely possible she may have placed it here at that original time herself; Rogues we are told do not age in appearance, though Matriarch Deviga told us that their technology becomes progressively worn and outmoded making it increasingly more difficult to maintain their internal systems. We have no idea how old the Pim model is, so it’s possible she may have been inside the Orlega One storage facility in an earlier life.
“This specific intel about a Rogue’s longevity gives us an insight to the android culture and may underpin the reasons for their apparent unstable psyche. To all intents and purposes Rogues are just… very powerful dolls.
“Historically they came into existence in the latter part of the K’Tani’s reign, when they ordered from the B’Det life-like androids with a propensity for cunning, gall and malice – along with everything else you’d expect of a killing machine. Their role for the most part, we were told, was as field intelligence gatherers, spies and also assassins. In order to minimise risk of capture or re-programming, the Rogues were created with their own minds – once powered up, there was no stopping them short of powerful ballistic weaponry, or indeed more clever use of ship systems as we did.
“Rogues were programmed to be loyal to all K’Tani, but they were also given this mind with free choice.
“We understand that over time some Rogues became disloyal to their masters – we presume that certain circumstances for these Rogues didn’t compute and they concluded that rebelling was preferable from doing nothing. From that point followed two major events. The first was a culling of many Rogues – their number was reduced by nearly two thirds. And then the remaining Rogues split and began to fight among themselves; half wanted to go it alone, and half wanted to continue to support the K’Tani. Both thought the other was wrong.
“But by the time the K’Tani had created the first Gene Clone, most Rogues had either been terminated or had wisely fled and gone into hiding. That said, some K’Tani and some Rogues later found it mutually beneficial to maintain a businesslike relationship from time to time, and that small number of Rogues continued to work freelance for the tyrants. We can be fairly sure that Pim falls into this latter category.
“Of course, keeping the fact that you’re a Rogue a secret is easier said than done. Not least because of their apparent immortality. So in order to maintain the pretence of normality their existence must have been largely transient, moving on before anyone noticed that they weren’t ageing.
“Concerning the K’Tani Hologram that took over the Fantasy, Pim didn’t appear to participate in those activities, suggesting that she either wanted to leave the programme to run things while she took a back seat, or possibly that she may have been at risk herself from the programme because of aforementioned reasons of mistrust and disloyalty.
“The rod itself is something of a mystery. Like all the of original isolinear rods in the Fantasy’s core, it’s of a Federation design based on the Cardassian originals, and one of tens of thousands of blank recordable rods found stored near to the core. Our best guess is that the programme was therefore downloaded onto one of the rods after the vessel’s arrival in the Outer Zone and installed into the Core presumably once it was in storage. Maybe at the same time the strange coating was applied to the Fantasy, though opinion is still strangely split on that point.
“We can only assume the action was carried out by the K’Tani, and can only guess that it was a simple prevention against the ship from being taken. It didn’t stop us, but we were lucky in that respect in that we didn’t have the time to reactivate the core before departure.
“If we go down that route of assumptions, we can probably also guess that the reason the K’Tani didn’t want the ship to be taken was because of this black substance coating it that makes us invisible to most conventional sensors. But then that juxtaposes with the theories about Pim.
“During the Holographic tyranny, for whatever her reasons, she laid low, but later, presumably when she realised that we were about to re-take the ship for ourselves, she tried to intercede.
“That initial altercation of course led to Commander Lirik’s strong suspicions, and thus, we suppose, prompted Pim to act and take the Command Yacht, wrenching it from the Beta Section and leaving said section powerless and drifting.
“But the more I think about it, the more I come to the conclusion that she didn’t actually complete her mission, whatever it was. She sent a message after we had travelled inadvertently through a wormhole that led to the edge of the Wibbly Wobbly Way revealing our location – we assume to the K’Tani who were following us at a distance, perhaps since we left Helub.
“I think she genuinely believed that her attempt to stop Commander Lirik from jumping to warp would be taken as wholly innocent. After they clashed, and he tried to pursue her, I think she realised it would lead to more widespread suspicions about her.
“If she was as good as Rogues are meant to be, she would have monitored the senior staff’s activities, and probably circumvented all attempts to locate her and quickly made a decision that she had to act, although I strongly suspect that her subsequent actions were not wholly thought through.”
Jackson stooped to stare into the girl’s eyes, just centimetres from her. She half expected her to attack suddenly and without warning, and strangely, there was a part of Jackson that wished she would just so that she could lash out at this thing which cost the lives of two of their number.
“She may well have been gathering intel on something specific on board, or as we think more likely to be guarding the ship with the cloaking substance with the aim of returning it for the K’Tani. Or she may have been waiting for another specific event to happen,” Jackson said, “we may never know. Or maybe I’m completely wrong, and she got what she was looking for.
“Either way, as a Rogue, we have to assume that she has survived being beamed into open space, and make room in our decisions for what repercussions that may have.”
* * *
CAPTAIN’S OFFICE
Christian sat at his desk under full illumination, freshly showered and in his night clothes, brushed cotton shorts and plain white vest, a stern look on his face as he considered how much he was behind on his various tasks as ship’s commanding officer. “Computer, time?”
“Twenty three hundred hours and thirty two minutes,” she replied courteously.
The Captain sighed, casting his eyes across the many padds on his desk and selected the appropriate one. He picked it up and stood, walking behind his desk to the window seat area behind.
It had been a good night. Having thought against it in the circumstances, Christian dramatically changed his mind suddenly as he was about to shower and retire for the evening, and quickly put his uniform back on and headed for the Starlight Bar.
The size of the throng gathered there shocked him more than the crowd who had watched Lirik battle Struckchev in the Banqueting Suite about a week ago. The band had been good – really good. And he had been surprised at how people were having to squeeze past each other around the seating areas and queue for the bar – so many people had shown up to share time and be together in one place. It certainly made him swallow heavily at his responsibility, all those eyes on him, all those whisper-shouted conversations about him and all the various goings on and other rumours and suppositions. He tried to feel warm and paternal towards them, but there were several moments when it felt to him more like the most frightening burden of his entire life.
His ears still slightly rang from the volume of guitar, bass, drums and keyboard, saxophone, trumpets and percussion all harmonious and a mixture of up-tempo improv jive and laid back jazz.
Not even thinking, he’d managed to down two large tankards of ale, and though he’d sampled some of the buffet laid on and finger food that was occasionally brought round, he was sufficiently hungry on return to his quarters to ask for a thin bacon sandwich on white refined bread – with red sauce of course. He felt slightly unclean at such indulgence, even though it was mostly synthesised, so had stood for a full fifteen minutes in the sonic shower and spent a short amount of time manicuring to relax. It hadn’t worked much, the thoughts of all the tasks he had to get through piled up in his head.
“Computer, extinguish the lights,” he requested, and the lights dimmed and died. Once again his office appeared mysterious and cold and the Captain somehow took comfort from his proximity to the streaks of vanishing starlight. He sat down on the firm cushion of the central window seat, sinking back against one of several bolsters and activated the padd’s control.
“Captain’s Log, Supplemental. Thanks to Lieutenant Verakov*** and her team****, the wide range of replicated food and beverages now available to all hands aboard the Fantasy has meant that since leaving B’Det space group meal times have become something of a ritual. For the four hundred or so passengers this means a traditional meal pattern around the conventional Earth times of breakfast, lunch and dinner; although the crew’s meals coincide around the shift changes of oh-eight hundred, sixteen hundred and midnight. Either way, the overall result is that it has brought a feeling of routine among the ship’s company, and with it some semblance of normality.
*** FOOTNOTE THREE
**** FOOTNOTE FOUR
“If only food management was my primary concern. Despite our relative calm and safety, we are a way off our timeline for improvement of internal systems. The crew are also still vastly under-trained, despite many hours practicing on the holo decks. In time they could be more than adequate, but I worry that we don’t have that luxury.”
A sudden, uncontrollable shiver racked his body from his legs to his shoulders. He felt sick.
“Danger looms,” he stopped, looking into the darker parts of his vista. “I don’t know how, but I can feel it. Although the K’Tani have kept away from us since Erowoon, I can’t shake the feeling that they are still out there, in pursuit.
“And I wish I felt more positive about our plight. I think in the recent calm people have quickly forgotten the real danger we are in. I am of course grateful for the outcome of the Away Mission to B’Det, and the presence of Bel’s holographic programme, not to mention her too few crew on board; they are of immeasurable use, despite certain behavioural issues among some.
“The same goes for the Helan, however on this subject I have reached an impasse. It no longer really matters to me how much they have helped us; the fact they have flatly refused a medical, and seem to conveniently avoid certain questions and situations, can only but strengthen the argument that they are, at least, not what they first seem.”
“I don’t want to admit that Lieutenant O’Hara’s suspicions ally with my own,” he mused, “but her words have kindled more doubt about them for me. I think I now need to know their truth, for along with freedom and justice, it is the one virtue that this ship and crew is putting their lives on the line for. And if they don’t give me some straight answers, I am most inclined to eject them from this vessel, no matter what their service to date.
“End Log.”
EPILOGUE
0450AM
Tribble tribble trib.
Tribble tribble trib.
“Wha…?” Captain Christian tossed from one side to his other in the bed, hauling the sheet and blanket over his head.
Tribble tribble trib.
“What? WHAT?!” Christian threw back the covers and sat bolt upright in the darkness, eyes clamped shut, mouth feeling dry and trying his best to be awake. He fumbled around for his commbadge and smacked it. “Yes?!”
“Professor Karnak to Captain Christian,” the computer relayed the direct audio call.
On hearing that it was the Vulcan-bred Iranian’s voice, Christian’s eyes magically seemed able to open, his mind focused. He was immediately aware of his nakedness. “What is it, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, you asked me to let you know as soon as I had finished my analysis of the Log Recording glitch,” she stated matter of factly.
Christian checked his timepiece. “I didn’t know you were going to work through the night, Lieutenant.”
There was a pause. “You did say it was an urgent priority, Captain,” she responded perhaps with a hint of sourness.
“Did I?” Christian assumed that he’d said so only to have her company again soon. “So what did you find?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” she answered for once sounding awkward. “Captain, are you familiar with the phrase Dius Fidius?”
FIN
* * *
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