EROWOON - PART 2

EP 8 "EROWOON: PART II" - TEASER

“Yeoman Lirik, Personal Log. For once, it’s good news all round.

“Most significantly, Warnerburg, Hedrik, Yip and a team of mostly Helan and Vulcan assistants have managed to supplement power by power-phasing between plasma circuits and back up generators.

“Having worked around the clock, my own search teams, supplemented by a surprising number of other civilian volunteers, have covered nearly all of the Command Section, deck by deck. We’ve found no evidence of arachnids – live ones, at least – in this part of the ship, although some sections still remain sealed to us.

“The Captain had told us that the android stated she had placed one of the spiders on the hidden deck. As the only other sighting has been on the Passenger Section, we believe there may be no creatures on our side of the Beta Section bulkhead at all. We remain vigilant, but as each hour passes we remain more hopeful.

“There has been no indication of any vehicular activity beyond our nebula hiding place since the unidentified vessels passed some time ago. Nonetheless, we’re taking no chances. Warnerburg has spent much of her time arming the weapons systems on the Command Section, a labour intensive task if ever there was one, while I’ve helped to make those space vehicles that are armed and in working order be ready for take off should it become necessary. Thankfully that task was much simplified as all the ships we found are fully maintained and in full working order.

“An added bonus of the recent proximity alert is that Struckchev has reconsidered his thinking on confining the survivors to the standby shuttle bay. I think that may have been the reason the volunteers were so eager to pitch in and help out this time.

“It’s had an effect on the Commander. As so much work has been done in such a short space of time, and as things have been quiet for the last couple of hours, Struckchev finally ordered the Beta Section stand down from red alert and furthermore suggested everyone get some rest while they could. At last he’s showing signs of being a good leader. But my personal relationship with him is far from harmonious, sadly. Perhaps this cheap contest he’s suggested might help to clear the air…if not establish who indeed is the better officer.

“With the downtime ordered, Fraxon’s Penratta ceremony can go ahead. I’m curious to find out more about these Helan. For a well travelled people, not many know much about them. And I’m still puzzled as to why they were shacked up on the Fantasy way out in that, presumably prohibited, K’Tani storage hangar on Helub.”

Lirik exited access shaft 73 at deck 25, just as instructed by Fraxon. The emergency lighting was golden here, muting colours and giving the whole area a feel of warmth and comfort. If he wasn’t mistaken, the local temperature was set slightly higher than in the rest of the ship.

Lirik chuckled to himself. He wasn’t sure if Commander Struckchev was aware that the Helan appeared to be tapping into the power supply and manipulating local environmental controls. In truth, Warnerburg’s power-saving protocols had extended their supply of energy by days – more than enough time for the Captain to return with fuel. Even so, Struckchev had decided to stick with the Captain’s original decision to conserve power to the absolute minimum, despite agreeing to allow basic life support on most decks. The Yeoman considered this a blatant act of defiance by the Helan, which he sort of approved of, mostly because it was against Struckchev. But this revelation also left him with a bit of a problem – if they were this devious, how on Earth could he truly trust them?

Lirik looked around. It was a corridor similar to others he had seen on the vessel; so far, Lirik had counted over 20 different standard interior designs. Each could be grouped into one of four general classes – elite, premier, standard and second class, the latter being the style reserved mostly for crew areas, save those frequented by passengers such as the Captain’s deck and the Infirmary.

Here, though, there were no artworks, no carpeted flooring or fancy fittings. Bare, stark walls and floors, with only a series of oval mesh lighting covers to give any hint of style.

“Proceed right, then second left and take the stairwell down one level,” Lirik recited the directions he’d been given.

Struggling to remember which general area of the ship this was, the Yeoman then identified several supply store symbols beside sealed doorways – each with a white line chalked diagonally across it to indicate they had been searched by one of his survey teams.

As he turned left into a dead end corridor, he noticed the green and white ‘EXIT’ sign across a large door near to the far end. As he touched the door it reacted to his presence, releasing the auto-seals and peeling back, granting him entry to the pressurised stairwell. Immediately he could hear a faint, distant chanting of many voices – a low, eerie set of inaudible proclamations. Lirik gingerly descended to the next deck, straining to hear better and wondering what to expect from his alien shipmates. The chanting grew slowly louder as he walked down the next short flights of stairs and past three sets of escape pods – he must be very close to the Command Section’s hull. Turning onto the third flight, the chanting suddenly stopped.

Lirik paused, then heard the suck of air as a door to the stairwell was opened below and footsteps came running up toward him. He swallowed hard and tensed in readiness, increasing his shield field by thirty per cent, even though he had no reason to feel threatened or fearful of something unexpected, other than a spider. It was just the way he’d been trained.

The Helan males Malakin and Renerva, twins in every respect, turned onto his flight and greeted him with identical wide smiles. The men were slightly younger than Fraxon, and spent nearly all their time with him, Lirik had noticed. They were dressed in simple boots, baggy trousers and open shirts.

“You are most welcome, Lirik,” Malakin took his arm unflinching. It was rare for the Yeoman to be touched so he greatly appreciated that this race of Helan did not seem concerned by his Medusan energies.

“Fraxon is expecting you,” Renerva patted Lirik firmly on the shoulder and skipped ahead to open the door below.

Lirik felt a little overwhelmed – and puzzled as to why Fraxon had sent a greeting delegation. Normally he didn’t mind attending unfamiliar gatherings or holding court among strangers in his capacity as a diplomatic aide. But he preferred not to feel schmoozed by people who were unfamiliar to him. He shook his head at his controlling nature and decided to just go along with whatever was to happen.

Stepping into the (brightly carpeted) corridor of deck 26 he noticed drapes of metallic material had been strewn along the walls and floor in an attempt at decoration. Lirik was hurried along toward a set of closed doors on the far left. He just managed to read the signage above the door control panel before he was pushed inside: “Jungle Gym 3”.

As the doors parted, the mass of multi-hued ramps, slides, ladders, platforms, rope swings, hidey-holes and ‘tree’ houses assaulted his vision. The colours were garish, bold and clashed horribly. More drapes festooned the construction, slightly muting the sickly sight. The room must have been seven metres high and about 25 metres square, heavily padded on all sides. Lirik imagined what the noise must be like when the place was filled with excited children.

Right now, though, about two dozen Helan adults were mixing and mingling in loud groups of joviality and conversation on and around the play area – no children here, Lirik observed. There was occasional laughter, fuelled it seemed by the consumption of small vials of clear liquid and some form of finger food. It reminded Lirik more of a Diplomatic Reception than a coming of age party – at least, that’s what he assumed this occasion was (in truth, he had no idea).

Curiously, there were no other non-Helan here either. In fact, it seemed only the younger adults of the Helan were in attendance. There was no sign of any of Ganhedra’s ancient cohorts, though he soon spied Fraxon’s elder sister Vostaline who gave him a friendly wave from the inside of a lime-green cube embedded half way up the wall.

A delicate glass vessel was thrust into his hand by Malakin. “Enjoy!” he said and bounded off, leaping with super-human skill onto a rampart two metres off the ground in front of them. It seemed he was immediately chastised in jacket-tugging whispers by the group of friends he had joined. Malakin back somersaulted off the rampart and landed on the soft floor in front of Lirik, flushed with embarrassment.

“Like my moves?” he asked nervously. “In case you couldn’t tell, I am a trained acrobat. Using this room for the party was my idea, of course.” Malakin cartwheeled to a rope and quickly scaled it using his arms only to reach the rampart, giving a flourishing bow as he joined his over-applauding friends.

“Of course,” Lirik mused, a little confused by the man’s behaviour. Was he trying to impress Lirik? Or stop him from wondering about his obvious display of supreme athleticism. Perhaps, Lirik wondered, the Helan were all adept gymnasts, but it was considered impolite to show off in front of less proficient races? An old question suddenly popped into his head: why had the Helan been segregated along with Ambassador Narli when the K’Tani security holographic programme had been activated? What set them apart from the rest? Lirik began to think of other possibilities, but not for long.

Renerva led him to a small crowd gathered around a miniature mock-up of a shuttle made of plastic with big openings in the sides. Oversized fake controls were at toddler standing level inside. Its flat topped hull was currently being used as a makeshift buffet table on which were laid several platters of Crep meat and vegetables.

“I’m afraid you missed the ceremony,” Renerva rolled several green and purple sticks of vegetable into a thin slice of meat and shoved the lot in his mouth, chewing quickly and swallowing. “But the party has only just begun! This poor fare is all we can spare given our circumstances, but the licquour is plentiful, I can assure you.” The young man winked and led Lirik underneath the main jungle gym structure where several more sedate groups were talking.

“What is it, anyway?” Lirik sniffed at the drink. It didn’t smell of anything.

“We call it Ayppolf,” the Helan drained his own glass in one gulp.

“Ayppolf…” the Yeoman tried the word for the first time and steeled himself for a sample sip. No flavour either, but the consistency and cool temperature reminded him of a good quality schnapps. As he swallowed, he had a near blinding head rush and his knees almost buckled underneath him. Steadying himself by gripping onto a padded strut, Lirik laughed uncontrollably. “This stuff is lethal,” was all he could manage, deciding not to have any more in case he embarrassed himself publicly.

Through the crowds he glimpsed Fraxon’s face…and bare chest. The skin kept on going down. Was he naked? Lirik tried to focus, the drink overpowering his perceptions. A couple of people around the alien shifted, as if in slow motion, and Lirik saw that he was actually wearing a loin cloth of some sort. His arms and back had been daubed in a glittering paint. His antennae were festooned with all manner of adornments tied in place with string, silk or leather strips. It looked most odd.

“Lirik!” Fraxon glimpsed the wobbling diplomat through the crowd. He spread his arms wide, his nude chest and stomach rippling with smooth, tanned muscle, and strode forward to greet him.

Lirik smiled but couldn’t return the gesture, still gripping onto the pillar for support. “I only took a sip, I swear,” he managed to say. “But I feel very…” he swayed slightly.

“It’s not for sipping. You’ll get drunk very quickly that way! Here,” Fraxon took a root vegetable from a passing guest’s plate and pressed it against the Yeoman’s lips. “Suck on this and you’ll feel a whole lot better.”

Lirik took the bulbous-ended, fleshy root and smiled, then grinned and practically fell over from laughter. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said between gasps, shoving the root in his mouth and trying not to descend into laughter again. “Sorry…” He chastised himself but sucked on the sweet root as directed. It tasted like honey.

Fraxon smiled, watching the Human-Medusan regain some composure. “Oh, that’s better,” Lirik found his focus again. No blurred vision, return of body control, logical thought patterns. Yes, everything seemed fine again, but the root had turned a nasty taste in his mouth – sour almost.

“Phleaugh,” Lirik pulled the root out – it had gone black and limp.

“The Maupus Karanthasaria Root is a parasite on a bog-dwelling lower life form on one of our home worlds,” Fraxon explained, rudely discarding the ‘root’ onto someone else’s plate, much to Lirik’s surprise. “We make the Ayppolf by fermenting the whole roots in water. But in its raw state, the root’s natural juice has healing properties that counteract the alcoholic toxins. Kind of like an antidote.”

“Fascinating,” Lirik said, wondering if O’Hara would be able to keep a supply on hand in the future for late night revellers. Lirik mentally kicked himself. What was he thinking? He couldn’t imagine having a good night out for a great deal of time to come given their perilous situation. He decided then to make the most of this evening – there might not be another chance for some time to come.

Fraxon slipped an arm around Lirik’s shoulders and the young man grinned widely.

“So, what’s involved in this coming of age ceremony, then? Do you get the key to the door, or something?” Lirik asked.

Fraxon, frowning heavily, walked them over to a pile of inflatable cushions and flopped down, easily steadying himself. He gestured to Lirik to join him, but the Englishman felt awkward and didn’t feel confident he would flop well. Sure enough, though he landed squarely his synthetic uniform skidded him straight off the shiny cushions and he flipped over with his legs in the air, the plastic bubbles seeming to open like a chasm and bury him in an ever-bouncing mound.

It took several akimbo movements to rectify his alignment relative to his host. Fraxon and several others were doubled over in fits of laughter at the Yeoman’s ungainliness. Lirik’s hair and uniform a mess, he appreciated the ‘funness’ of the drinking venue.

“Oh, ha ha,” he said wryly and grabbed a passing vial of Ayppolf. “Bottoms up!” he joked and sank the lot, smiling to his new friends as they followed suit.

* * *

“Lirik,” Fraxon placed a hand on the Yeoman’s shoulder as he calmed from an amusing joke told by Malakin’s younger cousin. Shruna was a petite red-head who’d unfortunately lost the end of one antennae apparently in a farming accident when she was a little girl, causing her to disbalance and walk with a slight limp. Her humour and knack for telling stories was entirely captivating, however, and Lirik felt instantly that he’d found a soulmate. “It is time.”

Lirik glanced up at Fraxon, still smiling, but bemused by the statement coming from the youngster’s serious face. “Time? For what?”

He noticed the group he had joined swiftly got up and moved away. Lirik rose to his feet and looked around. Although casually moving off to join others it was clear that they were intentionally leaving them alone. Shruna caught his eye and winked, smiling mischievously.

The Yeoman couldn’t read the situation and turned to face Fraxon. “Have I misunderstood something? Forgive me if I’ve said the wrong thing.” Over Fraxon’s shoulder Lirik could see Vostaline glancing over to the two of them. Her expression had changed to a mixture of concern and contempt.

“There is a small ritual I must perform. It requires the assistance of one other, preferably a stranger,” Fraxon seemed a little nervous.

“And you consider me to be the appropriate stranger?” Lirik asked carefully. Fraxon nodded. It was very possible this choice was what irked his sister so, Lirik wondered.

“Well, let’s get on with it then,” the Yeoman didn’t know at all what he was committing to, but couldn’t resist showing diplomatic bravado. It was a trait that had led to the death of many an over-zealous Diplomatic Corpsman, but also one that singled them out as the most suitable for the challenges of diplomacy. Risk was just as much – if not more – a part of the Corps than it was for regular Starfleet.

Fraxon took Lirik’s hand and held it aloft. “Kindra henai, I declare my Phanni!”

Lirik snorted to himself, both celebrating and chastising his love of the ambiguous nature of the universal translator, then felt the hands of Rinerva and Malakin pulling at his clothes. “Hey!” Lirik tugged away from them.

Shruna stepped forward bearing black robes in outsretched arms. “You must wear these if you are to perform the ritual,” she explained.

Lirik swallowed – he wasn’t exactly proud of his body and didn’t like to display it in general public. He decided he could probably keep his shorts and vest on – it was a good job he was actually wearing them on this evening. The Yeoman allowed the twins to help decloth him as everyone else looked on, feeling both a sense of anticipation and dread. He spied Vostaline take Fraxon aside and have a private and intense debate. Fraxon kept shaking his head as Vostaline sliced the air with her hands. Could they be discussing him?

Momentarily, Lirik was snugly swathed from head to toe in black. The garment reminded Lirik of the much-stereotyped Ninja garb with black loose-fitting material tied more rigidly at the wrists, ankles, waist and neck – even the front of his chin was contained. Leather slippers had replaced his boots. A tight hood like the ancient Earth Balaclava was pulled over his head and started to make him feel toasty.

Fraxon pulled away from a frowning Vostaline and led the Yeoman swiftly out of the Gym. It seemed the other guests turned back to conversation and laughter, forgetting the two of them, though the Yeoman could feel Vostaline’s gaze burning into his back as he disappeared into the corridor.

The Helan pulled a weapon. “In case of multi-legged creatures!” he joked then guided Lirik at great speed through corridors, up flights of stairs, and finally through a very narrow set of maintenance passages that passed between the monstrous devices that kept the ship’s engines working. Lirik couldn’t help running a gloved hand along the outer casing of a partially exposed huge deuterium tank. He was sweating under the weight of the material.

Finally, Fraxon popped an access hatch open and stepped into a standard class corridor. He walked ahead of Lirik, who tried to work out their location. There was barely enough light to see, though other environmental systems seemed in place. The corridor curved aftward according to the door numbers, and finally opened out into a large foyer. There were turbolift doors opposite a wider entrance ahead of them – much like the design outside the Infirmary on the Passenger Section. Fraxon speeded up, walking quickly across the foyer and through the entrance where two flights of stairs bled left and right, a high wall blocking their way directly forward.

At the top of the long left hand flight of wide stairs they turned right, through another set of double doors and found themselves at the top of a large auditorium. The semi-circle of seats was about fifty flights down to an orchestra pit and large, deep stage beyond.

“Wow,” Lirik couldn’t help but gaze in awe at the stage’s backdrop – a massive wall of pressure glass that would have looked out onto open space. Only it was now mostly painted over with the same black surface as the rest of the ship. Just a small patch lay untouched, or perhaps scraped away, and beyond the thick glass were the bright, swirling mists of the dalmation nebula. He glanced up and saw the adjustable sound mushrooms that naturally increased sound refraction towards the audience – far better for Human ears than artificial manipulation.

“Come on,” Fraxon led the way down to the stage. Lirik couldn’t help but turn towards the seats as he made his way up onto the large stage. He wondered at the number of ‘star’ performers who might have played here, noticing the holo-projector strips all over the place. He dreamt quickly of his favourite singers whom he might be able to listen to in such a venue, then noticed that Fraxon was kneeling on the stage, facing out through the patch of clear glass deep in concentration.

“This place is symbolic of the journey I am making through life,” Fraxon spoke quietly. Lirik crouched down beside him in the shaft of coloured light to listen better. “As the path of this ship continues, the places it has been to disappear into the distance, so my life continues on and my life to date retreats into memory.” He turned to face Lirik and half-smiled. “These ornaments are symbolic to my experiences with each of my people. They tie them to my … antennae and I carry them through the celebration until I am ready to pass over.”

“Pass over?” Lirik didn’t like the sound of that. He hoped this wasn’t the prelude to the Helan version of the Klingon suicide ritual.

“I have reached the age where I am able to make my own decisions,” Fraxon explained, much to the relief of Lirik. “Please, remove each one of the ornaments and place them before me. I must recognise each and every one for what they represent. If I do not, I must keep them in a pouch and devote special time to each of these individuals until my next passing.”

Lirik sank into a cross-legged position beside the near-naked alien, realising that this ‘ritual’ could take some time.

* * *

In the warm quietness of the darkened Captain’s Office on the secondary bridge, slumped in its high-backed chair, Struckchev stirred from his sleep. It was as if someone had called to him, but there was no-one else present in the small room. Slow realisation followed – there had been no comm system interruption, so he must have been dreaming. He checked the timepiece on the desk: 0324 hours. Half asleep, he hauled himself up and drank hungrily from the flask that contained his water ration and rubbed some into his eyes.

Something nagged at his memory, as if he was forgetting to do something. He looked through the smoked glass onto the bridge. The night-shift lighting was mellow, the atmosphere quiet. Warnerburg sat at engineering station, quietly working and a couple of the older Helan dozed at other bridge stations.

Struckchev walked quietly out of the office and entered the turbolift, staring at the control panel. The doors hissed closed. Where was he going at this time of night? His hand reached forward and tapped a destination sequence. He couldn’t remember what it was after he had done it, it was almost as if he was acting under another’s control – but he felt peaceful and unviolated and somehow knew that things were all right.

The turbolift presently halted and the doors parted to reveal a dim foyer. Wide open doors across the way beckoned tantalisingly. The Commander entered, turned right and walked up the long flight of stairs. As he passed through the pressure doors to the left at the top, he was amazed by where he was. The theatre was large, silent and empty, a shaft of the rich glow of the nebula lancing through a patch in the otherwise blackened window. Struckchev scanned the space, his eyes drawn toward the stage - what was the black object on the stage bathed in the nebula’s light?

The Commander slowly stepped down toward the stage area, all the while a vague dream playing around his mind. He felt afraid, drawn toward the black object on the stage. He reached the man-sized shape and crouched down. Touching a shoulder he nervously rolled the figure over.

His mouth dropped and his hand flinched away. “Lirik!” he couldn’t understand what was going on. Was the Yeoman injured?

* * *

The rain beat down hard, soaking Lirik instantly through to the skin. Lightening flashed around him and thunder shook the ground and trees. He couldn’t work out where he was at first, but then he saw the K’Tani fleet in the sky, coming out of the clouds and flashes of light coming from their nose mounted spikes, turning into an attacking dive.

The Yeoman spun away from them and ran toward the Orlega One storage facility. Confusion muddled his thoughts of escape. What was it doing here on…? Lirik remembered this was Vekaria in the middle of the violent squall. Orlega One should not be here, but on the no-atmosphere surface of the dusty moon above. Spears of phaser fire lashed the ground around him, erupting the earth in molten splashes, but they didn’t seem to touch him. The storage facility was suddenly hit and exploded in a shower of sparks and white light.

Lirik whipped his head around searching for somewhere else to shelter and saw a line of trees off to his right. A figure dressed in a Starfleet uniform was beckoning to him with exaggerated gestures. The rain and wind slowed his pace to almost slow-motion. It seemed to take an eternity to reach the tree line where he stumbled and fell splat into mud and leaves. A black boot appeared in front of his dirty face and a strong, vein wriddled muscular hand flecked with golden hairs reached down to him.

As he was pulled to his feet, Lirik looked up at the collar and rank pins of a Captain’s uniform. Expecting to see Christian, the Yeoman physically shook as he found himself staring at the smiling face of Fraxon.

“Lirik,” he said sweetly. Lirik’s vision blurred. No matter how hard he tried to focus, the light was getting dimmer until he could see or even feel nothing.

He was waking up. Something was poking at his chest. Lirik’s eyes flicked open and he looked up at Commander Struckchev.

“Oh…” He licked his lips and glanced around the large, empty theatre, his immediate surroundings bathed in pink and green, his body feeling stiff and cold. “I must have fallen asleep.”

The Yeoman noticed Struckchev seemed confused. “What are you doing down here anyway? Looking for me?”

The Commander’s expression was almost contemptuous. “Not exactly,” He stood and walked towards the huge window. “What’s been going on? Why are you dressed like that?”

“I was assisting Ganhedra’s son in a Helan ritual,” Lirik raised himself to a sitting position and looked around again, pulling the Balaclava off his head with a relieved huff. His head had become very warm – probably what lulled him into a sleep earlier. There was no sign of Fraxon or his artefacts. ‘Why would he have left me here’, he wondered?

Struckchev huffed and hung his head. “I don’t know, Yeoman,” he said, almost to himself.

“Commander?” the Englishman sensed a strange mood about the big Kosovan.

“For some reason I woke and felt compelled to come down here. But now, I can’t even remember how I got down here. It strikes me as very odd that what I should find is just you,” he barely glimpsed Lirik’s half smile as he paced over to the viewing ports and placed a hand on the cool glass. “Are you telepathic?”

The Englishman stood and removed his headgear with a relieved huff. “Not as you interpret it, no.”

The Commander turned, intrigued. Lirik’s paunch showed in this garb. He made a mental note that the Yeoman should be part of a special group he had identified as needing intensive physical training to bring them up to what he believed to be acceptable standards for a crewman under his command.

“I am Human-Medusan hybrid,” Lirik wiped his mouth and joined the Commander beside the massive window wall. "My physical make-up is both Human and Medusan – but as the latter energies are contained under my skin and remain invisible, most of the interaction I’ve had throughout my life has been Human-based.”

Case in point, Struckchev could feel the ambient Medusan energy emanating from the Yeoman. Even at this distance it made him feel a little nausious – almost like mild travel sickness.

“So, what was this ritual about?” Struckchev asked, changing the subject, feeling uncomfortable talking about Lirik’s past.

Lirik explained the process as best he could, the Commander also thinking it strange for the Yeoman to have been left to sleep alone on the hard, empty stage.

“Hm,” Struckchev nodded after the Yeoman had finished. “If this were a normal ship we would have learned much more about the Helan before allying ourselves to them,” he turned to Lirik, noticing the wonderment on the man’s face as he stared out into the swirling gasses. “But, this isn’t a normal ship. I don’t know. There’s just something about them that I don’t trust. But they seem to trust you, or at least this Fraxon does. You should use that to our advantage, find out all you can about them.”

Lirik nodded absently and faced the Struckchev, for the first time seeing mutual respect in his eyes. “I had already intended to.” He hesitated before asking the next question. “Care for a nightcap?”

The Commander raised his eyebrows, then nodded and almost smiled.

As they were about to leave, the heckles on the back of Lirik’s neck shot up. He whirled around, looking out through the patch in the massive windows into the mists.

“What?” Struckchev asked, intrigued and worried.

Lirik walked quickly to the glass and placed his hands upon the cold surface. “I’m not sure. Stand back,” he ordered.

The Commander complied, but still felt the radiant energy wash over him as Lirik extended his Medusan perceptions. The Yeoman immediately pulled away.

“Ships!” he hissed. “I can sense ships, on the edge of the nebula.”

* * *

ACT 1