EP 3 PROLOGUE
CAPTION: CHRISTMAS DAY, 0600 hours
Commodore Jackson quickly exited the Observation Lounge, stopping for the large golden doors to slide shut behind her. In the privacy of the adjoining corridor, she leant against a wall and uncontrollably sobbed for a few moments.
"Get a grip, Commodore," she half-coughed to herself.
Wiping salty tears from her eyes she tried to swallow away the hard lump that had formed in her throat. The sight of devastation on Helub and so many destroyed or damaged ships in the space above it had made her feel useless and weak.
"Oh, God, please let my son be alive," she murmured through clenched teeth. She had buried her husband too soon, and felt sick at the thought of a dead son as well. And what of her staff: Petri, Inaami and Djansky? She had not been at her post beside them during the attack. By all accounts, if she had she wouldn't have survived, but it still hurt her deeply losing all those people she took responsibility for.
Chin quivering, she glanced down at the rectangular gold braid and pips on her torn and dirty sleeves, the symbolism feeling inconsequential for the first time in her career.
Now, out here, she felt as if she were just plain Sarah-Louise, a middle-aged woman among other tortured souls, she thought. Her rank and Starfleet meant nothing now.
Composing herself, she moved slowly forward - after all, there were still civilians here who would be counting on her. And her son.
Jackson was about to enter the bridge when the ship suddenly lurched violently, slamming her heavy frame into the floor. Gravity momentarily fluctuated then returned to normal as lights around her dimmed and died. She crawled forward toward the bridge, but all she could see was darkness. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out the vague profiles in deepest grey under the starlight from the segmented overhead skylights that she only now noticed.
As Captain Christian and the others on the bridge shouted questions and suppositions to each other in the darkness, parts of the wood panelled bridge walls became illuminated - a rich, crimson hue that bathed the entire deck and the people present in its devilish glow. The blood red space suddenly seemed a lot smaller than it had before, the people contained there monochrome and insignificant.
"Emergency lights," Christian observed. "Rebbik?"
As Jackson scrambled awkwardly to her feet, she saw the nearby half-Ferengi turn in his chair to respond, his hands palm up in defeat. "No helm control, no power," he guessed. As Jackson finally stood, puffing, she saw nothing but reflected red light on the lifeless blank helm station. The main viewscreen before it was equally dead.
"We're still moving," Lirik said from the rear of the bridge. Jackson turned to see him looking up through the viewports, though if there was movement from the stars, it was negligible to her more Human eyes.
"I'd better get to engineering," Christian was addressing her, she realised. "Without power we're a dying sitting duck."
Jackson rubbed her sore eyes - focussing was beginning to be a problem. Civilians began to pour onto the bridge, asking what was going on.
Jackson turned toward the sound and waved them back. Licking her lips she spoke over her shoulder to Christian; "The people are like sardines in there. I'll see if we can move them below to a more comfortable place out of the way."
A figure stirred from the shadows. "We can help," Vostaline, the young-looking alien humanoid stepped forward, "we know where there are rooms with beds."
Jackson suddenly thought for the first time since the attack of the emergency situation priority lists. "Do you have any food or water aboard?"
Christian flushed - though it didn't show in the red light - survival was indeed the first order, and in his race to resolve engineering problems, and get the people on board and the hell away from the carnage, he'd forgotten all about the people and their needs.
Vostaline shrugged, "We eat little. Most of the food we did have we obtained from the spaceport. But we do have a few pet Cratek for milk and Krep."
"Sounds good," Jackson sighed, wondering to herself what the hell Krep was - and a Cratek, for that matter. She almost smiled remembering Djansky's curious collection of miniature ceramic bovine from all quadrants of the Galaxy, and then felt saddened that this Cratek was not to be a shared experience with her old friend.
Christian nodded and bolted for the Jeffreys tube, only to be accosted by Lirik en route.
"Sir," perspiration ran down Lirik's forehead revealing an unfit lifestyle, "I have a proposal."
"Oh?" Christian climbed onto the ladder. "Talk as we go, Yeoman," he said, disappearing beneath the deck.
"It's a bit unconventional," Lirik had to raise his voice for the rapidly vanishing Captain to hear, "The Hudson, the runabout we still have - if it's still in full working order, given our free momentum, couldn't we use her as a tug?"
Christian kicked himself for the second time in as many minutes. Though the sheer size of the runabout would have difficulties in hooking up to and manoeuvring such a large vessel as the Fantasy, given that they were in the vacuum of space it was theoretically possible, if not a physics challenge. He weighed the benefits against the problems as he continued to descend, leaving the worried Yeoman following behind wondering if he'd suggested the wrong thing.
Catching his breath in the corridor on Deck 9, Lirik faced Christian, hands on his hips - almost defensive, Lirik thought.
"Interesting," Christian almost complimented the Yeoman, but somehow the ruby sheen of his environmental shield caused Christian to hold back once more, "I tell you what, if you can solve the communications system we'll send her out for a recon. I for one would like to take a look at what's going on out there."
Lirik removed his communicator badge and held it up, as if signifying something, "I'll get right on it, Captain." He turned and disappeared into the access shaft.
As Christian made the double bend toward the small engineering area, wisps of smoke slowed his pace; "No fire suppression systems," he muttered, fearful for the lives of the makeshift engineering crew.
As Christian turned the final corner the smoke got a little thicker. More pronounced than the smoke in his eyes and lungs, he was knocked over by the rancid smell of burning plastic and another, sweeter aroma he had experienced only once before. It was an odd smell, but had an instant, horrific, memory-driven effect.
Reeling, Christian stumbled back out of the room, falling into a corridor wall as he panted wildly, hyperventilating with the uncontrollable emotions rushing through his mind and numbing his body. Doubling over, smell still stinging his nostrils he threw up over his boots and passed out.
* * *
2354 Kedrafin Prime.
Simeon Lucien Inigo Christian ran laughing through the canopied narrow passages of Melallee, the spiritual focus of Kedrafin Prime. He giggled as the chox birds scampered out of his way and took to the air on their double wings. His feet bounded carelessly along in the point zero zero zero zero one differential gravity, older locals and tourists tutted and ahemed at his over-zealous activity.
A sizeable herd of overweight Bolian females - merchant wives on an afternoon excursion, no doubt - caused him to slow and stop as they fussed around a boutique selling a variety of colorful textiles which resonated when caressed. They blocked his way forward.
Crouching, he squeezed his small frame through their bulbous legs much to their twittering annoyance, though he ignored their protests as he found himself at the edge of a vast piazza. It must have been over a kilometre square, edged with many old buildings and towers, most constructed of the traditional yellow-green brick of the city's historical past.
"Custard Square," he mused to himself, and consulted a pocket guide. Sure enough, the Terran colloquialism for the Piazza of the Star Flame God confirmed his supposition. He could see why - each of the paving stones were a rich yellow hue - caused by an organic material the pigment of which never faded, according to the guide. The colour contrasted wonderfully with the over-blueness of the sky - the planet's orbiting shield generators protecting the atmosphere from the harshness of the ageing sun high above reacted with the natural light, the guide further informed.
Across the sunny vista there were many tourists - some walking but most making use of the horse-like-beast-pulled carriages to ferry them from one historical place of interest (or souvenir emporium) to another. A larger crowd had gathered to his right. Christian was curious.
Using his boyish charm and practiced dextrous moves, he pushed to the front of the crowd and saw, some ten metres away, a group of about 500 or so men, all clad in grey-brown hooded robes moving slowly from side to side and backwards and forwards in tightly-knit formation.
He was listening to the people around him commenting on the strange 'monks'. Some boldly grinning tourists stepped into the space between the monks and the crowd to have their image recorded against the odd background. Christian laughed at the faces and poses they performed for the camera: tourists were so predictable, he thought. No-one present seemed to know who the men were exactly or what they were doing, but they seemed harmless enough.
Suddenly, from within the crowd of men a loud shrieking sound caused some tourists to jump. On the fringes of the group, some monks began to chuckle, or was it muttering - Christian couldn't tell. As he continued to watch, a single, high plume of flame shot up from the middle of the moving formation. The crowd around him 'oohd' and 'aahd' and some even clapped or stamped their feet in generous approval at the circus-like act.
Then, as if in slow motion, Christian watched as the monks began to shimmer - as if his vision was cloudy. A rush of heat washed over him - it seemed to eminate from the army of monks. Then, an orange glow began to move slowly outward from within the ranks. Some of the monks on the outer edge instinctively stepped forward, only to be hauled back into line by other, better devotees.
The heat became intense, and the horrified Christian watched as a wall of flame swept steadily towards him, consuming all the monks in its path. Tourists were now screaming and running away, but Christian couldn't move. As the fire wall reached the edge, the flames turned upward, licking high into the air forming thick, blue-black billowing smoke.
The howling of the monks was deafening for several moments, then faded into silence, their slow moving smudged black faces and bodies numbed as nerve endings died and oxygen escaped from their lungs. In minutes the mass of men had all but crumpled to the ground.
Christian sat slumped on the yellow pavings, warmed by the nearby ferocious heat. His mouth wide, eyes staring, tears streaming down his cheeks, his entire person filled with the sickly acrid-sweet smell of burning flesh and the terror of the vision before him.
* * *
PRESENT DAY
In the stillness of the smoky corridor, Christian lay unconscious, a single tear crawling down his cheek.
***
ACT 1