STAR TREK - TNG - 20 - Spartacus

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Chapter One

THEENTERPRISEWAScoming apart all around him.

“Steady,” Captain Jean-Luc Picard called out, gritting his teeth, even as he wrestled with the armrests of

his chair to hold himself in place. The red alert strip throbbed at eye level on the bulkheads, bathing the

bridge in a nightmarish, bloody glow. Behind him, he heard the sounds of his crew struggling to stay at

their posts in the face of the terrible pounding the ship was taking.

Picard wondered how much more his ship could take—and as he wondered, he couldn’t help but

remember that in the last century, seven ships had been destroyed by storms like the one raging on the

other side of the hull. A hull that was a mere two meters thick.

Another shock wave hit them—and out of the corner of his eye, Picard watched Will Riker, his first

officer, scramble for a foothold, wincing when he halfway collapsed against the gently sloping rail that

separated the lower bridge from the upper. Simultaneously, a low, almost inaudible growl from the

tactical station behind him told him that Worf, his Klingon security officer, had also gotten tossed around.

Picard felt for both of them. He knew they were as exhausted as he was by the shakes and shivers that

had irregularly punctuated the last three days. Exhausted and frustrated—not being able to walk across

the room without being knocked unexpectedly to the deck could drive you half crazy.

It was a maddening situation. TheEnterprise, the flagship of the Federation, was the culmination of over

four hundred years of spaceflight technology. Built to explore all but the most deadly reaches of the

galaxy, she could weather with near impunity the interstellar storms that had damaged and destroyed

earlier vessels. Her hull’s tritanium/duranium alloys and powerful deflector shields kept the ravages of the

worst magnetic and radiation storms at bay, while the crew carried on its business blissfully unaware of

the turmoil around them.

But a Gabriel Effect was dangerously different.

“Captain,” called Worf, apparently having regained his composure. “Damage control reports that the

port warp nacelle has been totally destroyed, with major damage to the secondary hull.”

“Again?” sighed Picard. “Number One, verify, please.” Riker hoisted himself to his feet and straightened

his uniform. He briskly continued his way up the gentle ramp, this time using the handrail, to the tactical

station, where Worf was studiously examining the damage report.

For some reason the computer favored the port warp nacelle. Over the last three days it had been

reported destroyed five times by the storm compared to the starboard nacelle’s three times. The primary

hull—where the computer core itself, as well as the bridge, was located—had been reported destroyed

only twice.

“Spotters say that there’s been no serious damage to the port nacelle,” Riker said. “Or anywhere else.

We reset the damage control programs—again.”

“Of course not,” Picard nodded. Another low growl told him Worf agreed with him.

On the forward viewscreen, the laser-pink lightning characteristic of the Effect arced jaggedly out of the

murky cloud of gas that dominated the screen to touch an asteroid drifting by. The resulting impact

created a spectacular explosion and light show that drew the worried attention of everyone on the bridge.

Though it was a hauntingly beautiful sight, Picard would have been more appreciative if it didn’t present

such a grave danger to his ship. Secondary waves spilled out from the explosion and rocked the ship for

a moment. As the shuddering of the deck beneath him ceased, he shook his head and waited for the

automatic systems and the breathing of his crew to return to normal. So far the “lightning’’ had passed

them by. He could only hope it would continue.

The last Picard had heard, most astrophysicists now thought that the Gabriel Effect was a reaction of

certain electromagnetic energies with a very specific kind of gravitational field such as that caused by a

cosmic string, perhaps, or even a naturally occurring space warp. Reality mechanics had something to do

with it, they hypothesized, but both fields of study were still so new and theoretical that there was no

language, let alone rules or laws, to describe the theory.

Gabriels were named not for the ancient Hebrew archangel, but for the captain of the first starship to

encounter one and survive. Very little was known about the storms themselves, because a Gabriel had

incredibly disturbing and disruptive influences on all kinds of electronic systems. Instruments and sensors

could not be trusted to show correct measurements, solid-state computer circuitry went crazy, even

simple electronic devices could malfunction or cease working entirely for no apparent reason. There were

even instances of highly charged reality-changing waves erupting from the fringes of the storm like

lightning, disrupting any field generating devices, such as the ones used to propel the starship faster than

light. The storms were of indeterminate duration and could cover huge areas of space—and could

conceivably cause almost anything to happen.

Of the list of ships that were listed destroyed, the USSFrancis Drake was the most famous of the

fatalities. Her hull, interior, and all hands had been transformed at the atomic level by some strange and

unknown electromagnetic process into pure silica during a particularly violent Gabriel. Seventy-six men

and women had lost their lives before they knew what was happening. The effect now in progress could

have done the same to theEnterprise any millisecond since it began. Or worse. From the captain’s point

of view, besides their capacity for instant destruction, the most maddening thing about Gabriels was their

disruptive effect on electronic equipment—especially computers, which ran nearly everything on board

the ship.

Picard had weathered a Gabriel once in theStargazer, and had hoped never to do so again. When the

first indications of the storm sprang up as they made their way across the frontier to Starbase 112, he had

stopped them immediately, and had shut down all nonessential electronic systems. Every system that

could be was put on manual to keep the computer from accidentally killing them all, and the personnel

that watched the controls were changed as frequently as possible. It frustrated him, but the only proven

way to deal with a Gabriel was to sit tight and hope it went away.

He had been on the bridge continuously for hours now. He had grabbed only a few short hours of sleep

in the last few days. There was nothing he, as captain, could really do, of course; the Effect didn’t care if

he was here or in his cabin, and could wipe them out either way. But he had a responsibility to his crew

that demanded he provide at least one visible stable factor in the whirling chaos.

“Status report, Number One,” he said, turning in his chair to face his first officer.

“All decks starting to report in,” Will called back, standing next to Worf at tactical. “One minute,

Captain.”

Picard placed his head in one hand, and sighed again. Patience, he chided himself—the storm couldn’t

last forever, unless it affected the temporal dimension, as well as the spatial ones.

“Crusher here,” a voice sounded. “Is it an emergency?”

“Is what an emergency, Doctor?” inquired Picard, frowning.

“Didn’t you call me?” came the exasperated reply. “I heard you myself.” Beverly Crusher was the ship’s

chief medical officer, and had been flooded, in the past few days, with minor injuries caused by the

storm. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. However, the advanced medical equipment and diagnostic

computers that would usually have aided her had been deactivated, lest they misdiagnose, mistreat, or

cause havoc on their own. Not even the simple medical scanners could be trusted in the storm. Beverly

had been treating everyone with archaic instruments and common-sense medicine. She had even

unearthed her stethoscope—a simple listening device used for diagnosis before the advent of medical

scanners, a gift from her parents upon entering medical school—to help out. Although the crisis had

allowed her and her staff to brush up on some old techniques, Dr. Crusher was not very happy with the

way she was forced to run her sickbay, and it showed in her voice.

“No, Doctor. No one on the bridge called you. It must have been a communications error.”

“That’s the third time in the last twelve hours, Jean-Luc! I sent a trauma team to Engineering to deal with

a coolant contamination, only to find everyone there perfectly healthy. On the way back, they got stuck in

a turbolift,” she said. “Geordi’s people are still trying to get them out. And this stupid records computer

keeps lecturing fromGray’s Anatomy at me!”

Picard almost smiled. “I apologize for the inconvenience, Doctor. Really, there’s nothing I can do. You’ll

just have to turn the volume down—”

“It won’t go down!”

“—and wait until the storm is over,” he finished.

“Crusher out,” came the chilly reply. Lt. Commander Data, a pale-skinned android, and Ensign Wesley

Crusher were at Ops and Conn, respectively; the latter turned to the former and made an exasperated

face.

“Mom’s in a bad mood,” Wesley whispered to the android.

“Apparently so,” Picard murmured, quietly. Though he hadn’t been meant to overhear, the boy—young

man—was correct. Beverly Crusher had all the patience in the universe when it came to dealing with the

health of her patients, but on more mundane matters she could—and did—get frustrated. After three

days of frustrations, everyone’s temper was wearing a little thin.

Truth be told, the overall level of tension on the ship was as high as Picard had ever seen it. That had

been having an effect on the entire crew’s performance; Deanna had told him as much a few short hours

ago.

His ship’s counselor, being half-Betazoid and able to read emotions, had warned him of the potential

danger when people were placed under such continual stress. She had been seeing almost the entire

bridge crew—save Data, of course—since the storm’s second day. And many other personnel in critical

areas of operation as well.

Deanna had told him that she was uncertain how much longer the crew could continue operating at even

minimum efficiency. Not that Picard had needed all that much convincing—his own exhaustion, and the

bags underneath her eyes were enough evidence for him.

The near total lack of diversions/amusements didn’t help, either. Ten-Forward, the ship’s main lounge

and social club, was closed, the holodecks were turned off, the computer libraries were deactivated, and

even the food slots had been powered down. He thought about the prepackaged emergency ration laying

unopened on his desk even now. He just couldn’t bring himself to eat another of those things.

And as the crew’s patience wore thin, he was using up replacements at horrid rates. Data, of course,

had not vacated his post since the ship had gone to yellow alert. Apparently the howling chaos that

disrupted electronics had no effect on the more advanced positronic systems of Data’s computers.

Picard stared at his paler-than-death android with admiration. Data was built for this sort of thing, of

course, and Picard wondered briefly if his second officer secretly reveled in the chance to show off his

superior abilities. Doubtful, if not impossible, he decided—the android had no emotions, and therefore no

ego to flatter. Sometimes Picard wished that Data would be less modest about his nature, learn to relax

and enjoy instead of studying and worrying. But Data was Data, and Picard doubted if he would or even

could change. In fact, he was certain that he didn’t want him to.

“Captain,” Wesley said, “sensors indicate that asteroid the Gabriel hit has become a

seven-kilometer-wide chunk of nickel, iron, and . . . felsium.”

“If it is felsium, sir,” Riker began, taking his seat in the command area next to the captain, “it’s of no

danger to us.”

“Not unless the Gabriel Effect emits a directed stream of highly charged phased particles in the lower

electromagnetic range,” Data said, pushing the rotating Ops panel away and turning towards the

command area. “However, the chances of the storm producing such a stream in the first place are low;

and the chances that such a stream, once produced, would impact on the same body are significantly

smaller.”

“About the same chance of lightning striking in the same place twice,” said Picard. “Which is just the sort

of thing these storms are good at. Data, could the hull of theEnterprise withstand such an explosion?”

“Certainly, Captain. With standard deflector shields, we would take no damage at all—and only

superficial damage to the unprotected hull. But there is no certainty that the cometary material is, indeed,

what the sensors say it is. I would suggest launching a probe.”

“Just to be safe,” agreed Picard with a nod of his head. “Make it so.”

Data returned his attention to the Ops console, and a few seconds later, a tiny shooting star erupted

from the hull and onto the screen, soon lost in the turbulence of the storm.

“Probe away. Sensor data on the asteroid will be available in . . . two minutes.”

Picard turned to his first officer. “How’s the ship, Will?”

“The port nacelle is still there, and the secondary hull is undamaged, but the ship insists that there is a

massive antimatter leak, compounded by a coolant leak. Apparently, it’s gotten hold of one of the

damage control drill routines and thinks it’s real, and nothing we say is convincing it otherwise. At last

report, the coolant leaks were approaching main engineering, and have been flooding sickbay with

casualties. The computer is trying to alert sickbay now.”

“Dr. Crusher will no doubt enjoy that,” Picard said, ruefully. “I can’t be derelict in duty by assuming that

they don’t exist if the ship insists they do. Bridge to engineering.”

“La Forge here,” came the voice of theEnterprise ’s chief engineer.

“Geordi, look around you very carefully. Is there a large antimatter leak or other malevolent

contamination in your section?”

“Uh . . . negative, Captain. I wouldn’t be talking to you if there was. Howard is looking a little

ill-tempered, but I think that’s those emergency rations we’ve been eating.”

“Tell him I empathize,” Picard said with a smile. “Fine. No need to abandon ship. How are your people

holding out?”

Picard could picture Geordi’s characteristic shrug. “Fine, Captain. A little tired of poking around with a

flashlight and looking for imaginary problems, but they won’t mutiny for a few days yet.”

“Hopefully, the storm will be over before then. Keep me appraised of any difficulties. Picard out.”

“Captain,” Wesley said, suddenly, his fingers flying across his console. “Sensors seem to indicate that the

background energy level is dropping. If it does, then it’s possible that the secondary and the tertiary

effects of the storm should recede or diminish. Of course, this may just be a temporary dip, but this could

also be the end of it.”

“Data, verify,” Picard ordered. If what Crusher reported was true, then he wanted to know as soon as

possible.

“Verified, Captain. Background energy level has fallen 7.254 percent in the last thirty minutes. There is

the possibility of sensor error, however.”

“Is there any way to double-check the readings?”

“Not without going outside of the system,” Data replied.

“We can use the probe we just launched,” Wesley interjected. “Once the probe is done scanning the

asteroid, I can use it to sample storm levels in a number of planes, charting a graph—”

Picard cut him off. “Yes, yes, you don’t need to explain it to me, Ensign. Just do it.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Wesley said, as he began preparing his console.

A minute or so went by in blissful silence, as the tiny probe theEnterprise had launched swept by the

asteroid, pelting it with all manner of scanning waves. The information poured into its little brain, which

processed and organized it before it spat it back to its mother.

“The probe corroborates our sensors’ readings,” Wesley said, “both of the asteroid’s composition and

of a lessening in storm activity.”

“Confirmed, sir,” Data said. “Estimating 23.5 minutes till the Gabriel’s secondary and tertiary

effects—including most of the electronic disturbances—will be noticeably diminished. However, the

primary effects, as well as continued e-m emissions, will continue for some time. In any case, there will

need to be a step-by-step diagnostic refit of every ship’s system before we can safely be on our way.”

“Excellent,” Picard said. In his mind, there was a rising chorus of hallelujahs as he realized that he could

get some sleep soon. So might, he reasoned, some other people. Perhaps he could take some of the

pressure off Beverly and Deanna for a while.

“Attention all decks,” he called out. “Sensors are indicating that the storm level is decreasing. The worst

of it should be over in less than a half hour. We will then proceed to do a first level diagnostic run to

repair any damage. Until then, however, I would like to remind everyone not to use any equipment until it

has been checked out by one of the engineering staff. Once the ship has been thoroughly checked out

and everything is in working order, we will proceed to Starbase 112 for personnel transfer—and a

healthy dose of shore leave. Picard out.”

Even through the soundproof decks he thought he could hear the cheers. TheEnterprise had been in

space for some time, and everyone needed to blow off a little steam. The ship had become quite a

pressure cooker, too, since the holodecks and other amusements had to be shut down because of the

storm. He wouldn’t mind a little jaunt into fantasyland, himself, he decided. Another case as Dixon Hill,

perhaps—

“Captain,” Wesley said. “The probe we launched is picking up some sort of signal. Pretty regular. It

could be another ship; it’s hard to tell. It’s probably just the storm, but . . .”

“. . . but better safe than sorry,” he said. “Start a passive sensor search. Open hailing frequencies as

soon as the storm permits. If there’s another ship in the area, it might not have been as lucky as we

were.”

“The storm’s intensity is falling off logarithmically, Captain,” Data said. “It should be possible to transmit

on subspace frequencies immediately.”

Picard turned his attention to the viewscreen. It was true. The murky cloud that had been the epicenter

of the Gabriel had almost entirely dissipated as quickly as it had begun.

“Stand down from red alert,” the captain ordered. “Mr. Worf, try and isolate Mr. Crusher’s signal.”

The Klingon nodded, and turned his attention to his console. While Worf worked, Picard mentally

reviewed the list of spacefaring races native to this sector—and came up empty.

They were well past the borders of Federation space at this point—had been, in fact, for the last week.

Stars, and therefore habitable planets, were few and far between out here. It was light-years to the

nearest inhabited world. This far out in the sector, he would not expect to run into any of “the usual

suspects”—the Romulans, Catellox, or Cardassians. More likely, it was an exploratory vessel of some

sort—which could mean a Ferengi trading ship, or simply a nonaligned vessel.

“I have isolated the signal,” Worf said. “It is definitely another ship—minimal energy output. No matches

with any known ship configurations.”

“Hmm,” Riker said, turning to face him. “I would have bet on the Ferengi.”

Picard nodded. “We’ll soon find out who they are, Number One.” He stood, turning to Worf as he did

so. “Open hailing frequencies.”

“This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the USSEnterprise. We are an exploratory vessel on a peaceful

mission in this sector of the galaxy. Please identify yourself.” He turned to Worf again. “Put them on

screen when they respond.”

“Aye, sir.” The Klingon hesitated. “Their signal is very weak, Captain. The image will be fuzzy,” he

warned.

True to his words, a vaguely humanoid image replaced the contracting dust cloud that surrounded the

ship. There was a slight pause as the translators picked up the alien signal and transformed it into

something he could understand.

“This is Captain Jared of theFreedom. Where are you from,Enterprise? Are you in need of

assistance?”

Picard smiled. Thank God they were friendly—the last thing his ship needed right now was a

confrontation.

“We are from the Federation. And I think we have things under control,” Picard assured the alien

captain. The low energy readings Worf was getting from the alien ship—theFreedom —made him

wonder if they’d been damaged themselves by the storm. “And yourselves? Are you in need of

assistance?”

There was an extended pause. Picard thought he could see the other captain consulting with someone

offscreen, but the disruption made it unclear.

“The Federation—I don’t believe I’ve heard of it,” Jared said. Though relayed almost at a monotone,

Picard felt he detected a trace of suspicion in the other man’s voice. Or maybe it was the translator . . .

“The formal name is the United Federation of Planets. We’re an interplanetary organization made up of

several hundred cultures. Starfleet is the exploratory arm of the Federation, and theEnterprise is a

Starfleet vessel. Where are you from,Freedom?”

There was more hesitation, and perhaps more offscreen discussion—the image was so distorted that

Picard couldn’t tell for certain. “Worf, get them clearer,” he said with quiet urgency.

“Aye, Captain,” Worf returned in a low growl. The picture did become clearer, though whether because

of Worf’s fiddling or the slacking storm, Picard couldn’t tell. Now he got his first look at Captain Jared,

and theFreedom ’s crew.

They were human—perfectly human.

Jared was seated in the middle of an area that looked shockingly like their own bridge—a handsome

young man with longish dark hair, probably a few years younger than Riker—flanked by an

extraordinarily beautiful woman on his right. Both were wearing nondescript tan coveralls. Picard also

noted the machinery in the background was archaic and bulky by Federation standards.

“We have some significant damage to our ship,Enterprise,” Jared said. “Three out of seven of our

reactors are shut down, and we believe we have a lot of external damage. The storm we encountered

played havoc with our internal electronic systems. The readings were so wild we thought we were under

attack when it first began. We aren’t going very far very fast unless we get them fixed.”

“Acknowledged,Freedom,” said Picard. He exchanged a quick glance with his first officer—Jared had

neatly dodged the question he’d just asked by responding to his previous one. “We call the phenomenon

we have mutually encountered a Gabriel Effect—they are very rare, but very dangerous. We are both

lucky to survive intact.” He paused. “Perhaps we can assist you in repairs. If you let us know what kind

of drive you’re using—”

“Condorite fusion reactors,Enterprise,” the alien captain said. “State of the art.”

“Condorite?” Riker said quietly, coming up behind his captain. “Sounds like an old ship. Nothing Geordi

couldn’t handle in his sleep.”

Picard nodded. “Captain Jared, I think we might be able to spare an engineer or two.”

There was a long pause, as Jared spoke again offscreen. In only seconds, he was back. “That would be

very much appreciated, Captain. We are short of manpower and supplies. I haven’t even properly

assessed how badly we were damaged.”

“Do you need medical help? My medical staff—”

“No, we have an excellent medical staff,” Jared interrupted. “And no one was seriously injured. No

problem there. But our reactors are damaged severely.”

“I’m curious,” Picard began carefully. “What brings you this far out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Exploring,” Jared explained after a moment’s hesitation. “We’re looking for a place to settle. Our world

was devastated by war, and my ship was one of the few to get away.”

“Devastated?” That would certainly explain the youth of theFreedom ’s commander. Emergency

situations often called for emergency measures, and less experienced men might be pressed into service.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I assume you are carrying refugees?”

The younger man paused, then nodded, his face stretched by the now only occasional static. “Refugees.

Yes. Over four hundred, Captain.”

Picard nodded. “Captain, I didn’t get the name of the planet you were from.”

Jared nodded, tight-lipped. “That’s because I didn’t say it.”

Beside him, Picard felt Riker tense. Again, he hoped there was nothing more to Jared and his ship than

met the eye.

“We’re from Vemla,Enterprise. A small planet at the other end of this sector. Have you heard of it?”

“Data?” Picard prompted, turning to his second officer, thankful again that one of Data’s more useful

abilities was his enormous and accurate storehouse of information. While he had nowhere near the

capacity of theEnterprise ’s powerful computer library, he had the capability to pull at least basic

information on many billions of subjects and present it in a form more digestible—and therefore more

useful—to his human companions.

“Vemla,” he said, almost instantly, his eyes seeming to read the information his brain retrieved. “Some

small references in the logs of the Saren Trading Corps, several centuries ago. Due to Vemla’s isolated

position and lack of noteworthy or valuable merchandise, visits have been sporadic. Class M planet,

humanoid race, technologically underdeveloped culture. Little else is known about the inhabitants or

culture of the planet.”

Picard noted Jared and the woman by his side watching Data with frank interest, and wondered if they

had ever seen an android before. “Captain Jared—what happened to your world? Were you invaded?”

Jared paused, then shook his head. “No. I am distressed to say that internal warfare destroyed us. There

just wasn’t enough left to salvage after the last battle, so we thought we’d start over.”

A sad tale, but one Picard had heard all too often. That at least partially explained his initial evasive

behavior. Hard times often bred suspicion. “I wish you luck, Captain. I’ll have a party sent over to begin

repairs as soon as we’re within range.”

“Perhaps you’d like to come yourself, Captain. I’d be honored to give you a tour of my ship, battered

though she is.”

“Another time,Freedom. I shall send my first officer in my place, however. Any courtesy extended to

him will reflect on me.”

Jared nodded. “Shall I send a shuttle for your party, or do you have one of your own?”

“Shuttles?” Picard smiled tiredly. Jared had a lot to learn about real state-of-the-art technology. “We

don’t need shuttles.”

Chapter Two

ON ANOTHER SHIP, quite far away, Force Commander Sawliru sat in his cabin, examining telemetry

reports from the last few reconnaissance missions. His head ached tremendously, but he bore the pain

with great fortitude, just as he bore the reason for his headache, Mission Commander Alkirg. She was

constantly calling him on the ship’s intercom to ask for an update on the status of the mission that she was

commanding.

Each time she had called, Sawliru had told her the same thing: Nothing yet, I’ll call you when I have

something. He had repeated the litany once each half-hour for the last five days. Yet she persisted in

disturbing him for the most trivial of reasons. This last one, something about disciplining two young

officers for speaking out against the mission and “spreading general dissatisfaction” while off-duty, was

typical of the inane drivel that he had been subjected to in the last few weeks. Unfortunately, he would

have to give them some summary discipline to appease her, which would just add to his troubles. As the

mission dragged on longer and longer, the men under his command had time to think, always the bane of

any military organization. They grew more and more restless and anxious about the Objective, with a

capitalO (as Alkirg was constantly reminding all of them) and the purpose of the whole mission. Now

they just wanted to go back home. Where, he reminded himself, there was an even bigger mess.

He couldn’t blame the two young men for speaking out. He wanted to get rid of the entire thing and go

back home, too. But he was a military man, and military men followed orders. It was quite possible that

the success of the entire mission might come down to his ability to follow orders, for if he had his

druthers, Alkirg’s Objective would be destroyed, saving a considerable amount of useless and

self-serving energy.

But Alkirg didn’t see it like that. She wanted a relatively peaceful conclusion to the mission. He could

see her point, of course; if she could pull this off, she would be assuring her political future. Failure would

condemn her to obscurity—and he was sure he would go down with her. The friends she had left would

ruin his military career. The issue was just too valuable to trust to a civilian, in Sawliru’s opinion. It should

have been a purely military matter from the beginning.

On top of his problems of mediating between his crew and his commander, one of the recon scouts had

reported a slight aberration in the spectrographic analysis of one sector. It might have been the Objective.

On the other hand, given the freak storm conditions the region had been experiencing, it was probably a

chunk of cometary matter or a leftover probability whirl from the storm. But Alkirg would insist on close

inspection, just as she had everything else. That could be dangerous—two of their recon craft had been

found totally destroyed in that area, with large pieces of them, including their unfortunate pilots, turned to

mercury by the demonic storm. If she insisted on searching the area, none of them would ever see home

again. If they survived the aftereffects of the storm, they would just keep flitting from one node of junk to

the other, until even their home star was invisible against the rest of the galaxy. His crew might mutiny,

aliens might attack, any number of bad things might happen. And they were running out of food, water,

fuel, and other supplies.

Force Commander Sawliru sighed, and reached into the top drawer of his desk for an aspirin.

They were running out of those, too.

Riker shimmered back into existence, and the interior of theFreedom took shape before him. The

lighting here was dimmer than on their own ship, the air colder, with a sweetish odor to it. Not

unpleasant, just a little cloying. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the lesser illumination, and in a few

seconds he could see normally. He couldn’t do anything about the odor. It wasn’t like a Klingon ship, but

still . . .

They had materialized in a large, comfortable-looking chamber. Several padded seats and tables were

arranged in an efficient fashion. Alien works of what he guessed was art, and a detailed model of the

Freedom, hung from the surrounding walls. Four Vemlans—two men, two women—stood in a loose

reception line before them.

Captain Picard had instructed him to find out as much as possible about the Vemlans. There was

something about them that made Picard wary—and a man who had sat in the big chair as long as

Jean-Luc Picard had learned to trust his hunches. Will devoutly wished ship’s counselor Deanna Troi

could have come with them—she was an expert on alien/human relations and was well versed in reading

the subtle body language that often gave away what a person thought. In the Gabriel’s aftermath, though,

she was still needed back on the ship, and he would have to muddle through as best he could.

The Vemlans looked as human in person as they had on the viewscreen. Each was wearing a simple tan

coverall garment, and a wide fabric belt with several pockets attached to it. The only symbol of rank or

insignia he could see on their uniforms seemed to be different colored sashes running from left shoulder to

right hip.

Jared was the tallest of the four facing them. Up close, his well-chiseled chin and a slightly hooked nose

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ChapterOneTHEENTERPRISEWAScomingapartallaroundhim.“Steady,”CaptainJean-LucPicardcalledout,grittinghisteeth,evenashewrestledwiththearmrestsofhischairtoholdhimselfinplace.Theredalertstripthrobbedateyelevelonthebulkheads,bathingthebridgeinanightmarish,bloodyglow.Behindhim,heheardthesoundsofhiscrewstrug...

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STAR TREK - TNG - 20 - Spartacus.pdf

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STAR TREK - TNG - 20 - Spartacus

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