STAR TREK - SCE - 03 - Hard cash

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2024-12-20 0 0 123.56KB 30 页 5.9玖币
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STAR TREK S.C.E
HARD CRASH
By Christie Golden
Our communication system appears to be damaged. I am receiving no response from you. Jaldark,
please come in. You need to effect repairs so that we can communicate.
Jaldark, please come in.
Jaldark, respond.
Please.
Tlaimon Kassant sipped a cup of hot jiksn. He had the late shift, the solitary shift, and he liked it that
way. His people were known for their close-knit bonds and love of socialization, but Tlaimon was
considered unusual in that he preferred his own company for a few hours every day. He considered his
"oddity" a boon as he was paid twice for being willing to go the entire night by himself. Most Intarians
liked to work in huddled groups.
All alone for the night. What a pleasant thing. Easy job, too; watching the monitor for things that seldom
happened. Most ships communicated their arrival long before they showed up on the monitor. They were
always eager to get to Intar. It wasn't as well known in the quadrant as Risa, admittedly, but then, what
planet was?
Tlaimon stretched the retractable tentacles that served the Intarians for arms and lazily brought his
multifaceted-eyed gaze toward the screen.
The cup of jiksn fell to the padded floor unheeded and bounced twice. Its contents formed a pool of
sticky lavender fluid. Tlaimon swore a deep oath under his breath while his two hearts raced with fear at
what the screen revealed.
Something large was approaching the city from space. It was several million kilometers away, but it was
closing fast. Too fast for comfort. He adjusted the controls swiftly, his tentacles more deft than any
humanoid's clumsy digits.
Tlaimon could see the outline now. A ship of some kind, though the computer kept flashing that most
frustrating of words, "Unknown", on the screen. It was long and spiky and promised destruction if it
continued on its trajectory.
Tlaimon quickly hit the button that would translate his message in every language known to the
Federation.
"Attention alien vessel," he said in a voice that trembled. "You are on a collision course with a major
population center of our planet. Adjust your course to bearing one-four-seven mark eight and you will
avoid impact."
The ship didn't change its position one millimeter. Either it was unaware of the impending disaster--for
surely it would be destroyed upon striking the planet if it continued at its present speed--or else its crew
didn't care.
Unpleasant scenarios crowded Tlaimon mind. Was this a suicide run? A dreadful first strike that would
mean war?
Who would possibly want to make war on us? Tlaimon thought wildly.
There was nothing else for it. Trembling, Tlaimon extended a tentacle and tapped the white button that
would alert the government that a disaster was descending upon the capital city of Verutak with all the
inevitability of dusk at the end of the day.
Jaldark, what is going on? I have heard nothing from you. Everything appears to be intact, and yet we
remain unable to communicate. Please respond. Please attend to the communication damage.
Are you still receiving this? Jaldark?
Bartholomew Faulwell smiled to himself as he took the items from the replicator. What he was doing had
become, over time, a ritual of sorts. He took the crisp, off-white paper, enjoying the feel of it in his hand;
picked up the smooth pen filled with just the right shade of black-blue ink. Sometimes, if he weren't
careful, the ink would stain the tip of the third finger on the right hand. It brought him an uncommon rush
of pleasure whenever he chanced to look upon that smudge before it wore off, because it reminded him
of the ritual, and the ritual brought him closer to Anthony Mark.
Of course, there was no convenient way of getting the actual letters to Anthony. Once Faulwell had
composed them, had gotten the words exactly right, he'd read them aloud into a subspace message and
poof, off it would go. It was impersonal, but it was the only way. On the rare opportunities they had to
meet, Faulwell would give Anthony the letters in a box as a special gift. But the simple physical act of
writing the letters--all of which he opened with the words "Just a brief note" regardless of how many
pages the letter would then go on to become--made Bart feel akin to the myriads of wanderers who had
gone before the sailors of ancient Earth, the early spacefarers, all those who knew distance from those
they loved and tried to bridge that distance with the written word.
Words, written or spoken, were almost as dear to Faulwell as Anthony.
He took a breath and settled down in a chair in the quarters he shared with Stevens. He instructed the
computer to provide soft instrumental music as a pleasant background, and began to write.
Just a brief note to let you know that our last assignment was completed successfully. It was not without
its tense moments, however! Some days, this mission becomes just a trifle too exciting for a boring old
linguist like me to handle. It is always such a pleasure to have a calm moment now and then to write
down my thoughts and feelings to you, my dear, and know that as you read these words you will, in
some small way, share in my adventures. How are you getting along with your new colleague, the one
you called in your last letter the "Pompous Windbag?" Has PW come around to your way of thinking
yet? I cannot imagine you would be unable to win him over once
A klaxon sounded. Yellow alert. The slight linguist sagged in his chair and groaned. Time for another
adventure.
"Will the following crewmembers please report to the briefing room." Bart listened, but his hopes of
peacefully continuing with his correspondence were dashed when he heard his name among those listed.
Carefully he capped the pen and left the letter on the table.
He wasn't usually summoned to briefings unless he was an actual participant in whatever mission they
were about to embark upon. Still, he remained optimistic. With any luck he'd return to his letter in a few
moments. After all, not every "adventure" on which the da Vinci embarked required a linguist.
"And we'll need a linguist," Captain David Gold was saying to Geordi la Forge as Faulwell entered the
room. "Ah, from my mouth to God's ears," Gold added with a lift of his bushy eyebrows as he caught
sight of Faulwell. The rest of the crew who had been asked to report was filling the small briefing room,
gently pushing past Faulwell to take their seats.
Faulwell smiled weakly. His brief note would have to wait.
Something brushed past his leg; P8Blue scurrying toward her specially designed seat. She was muttering
underneath her breath. Bart wondered what this mission was about that got the normally calm Pattie so
agitated.
He sat between Commander Sonya Gomez and Carol Abramowitz. Carol leaned over and whispered,
"Culture specialist and linguist huh? Wonder if it's a first contact situation."
Her dark eyes glowed with excitement. Abramowitz loved first contact situations, but they always made
the academic Faulwell nervous as hell. He more than anyone knew just how important choosing the right
word in delicate negotiations could be. Sometimes, it was literally a matter of life or death. He figured
each of the first contact situations in which he'd participated had aged him at least a year. No wonder his
hair was thinning and turning gray.
110, as always, was the last one to enter. Sometimes, he was quite late in reporting to the briefings, but
Gold had not reprimanded him. Everyone was sympathetic to 110's situation. Bart had begun to worry
about him after their conversation. The little Bynar edged into the room as if fearing an attack, his eyes,
so small in his round, pale face, darting about. Bart remembered how the unified pair used to move, each
step in synch, quickly but with grace. Now 110 moved jerkily, awkwardly, as if he was uncertain where
to put hand or foot. There was no rhythm in his movements anymore. In many ways, he reminded Bart of
nothing so much as a broken toy. He did not take a seat, but chose to stand next to the door.
As if to make a quick exit, Faulwell thought. He grieved for the solitary being. He couldn't imagine losing
Anthony, and they spent most of each year light-years away from one another. To be as intimately
bonded as the Bynars were, and then to lose that other half--inconceivable. Simply inconceivable, what
110 must be going through.
Gold's sharp eyes scanned his crew. He nodded, as if satisfied.
"We got the notification from Scotty about fifteen minutes ago. We're going to have to move quickly,
gentlemen, ladies and others. We've got a delicate situation on our hands. Commander, if you will?"
La Forge touched a button. Bart felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach as he stared at the image that
appeared. A large ship lay like a beached whale in the center of tons of debris. The pile of rubble had
once been, if the graceful curves and arcs of the surviving buildings were any indication, a highly civilized
city. The vessel was oval in shape, with four peculiar extensions jutting out of its fore and aft sections that
looked like spikes. It seemed as if the impact had severely damaged the vessel, but the unfortunate city
had gotten the worst of the deal.
Faulwell's mind raced. High population area, doubtless.
"Casualties?" asked Gomez, alert and focused.
"None that we know of, fortunately," said Gold. "It's the capital city of Intar."
"Not Intar!" gasped Abramowitz, her eyes wide with shock. "The Intarians are famous for their
friendliness. I can't imagine anyone attacking them."
"They also have an extremely advanced warning system," said Gold. "It was designed so that they could
address approaching ships and send them a nice hello. The other, secondary, purpose was to identify
drifting space debris that might d o some damage. They were able to evacuate the entire city before
impact."
Bart felt the tension in his chest ease a little.
"However," Geordi continued, "according to reports on approach of the ship, everything points to the
vessel deliberately crashing into the planet. The Intarians tried to contact it, and when contact failed, they
open fire. Intar doesnt have much of a defense system and what little they did have seemed to have
absolutely no impact on this thing. And while it's temporarily dormant, it's still emitting signals." He tapped
the screen with his knuckle. "The beast is wounded all right, but it's still alive."
"Any vessel we're familiar with would have been broken to pieces on impact," said Pattie, blinking her
multifaceted eyes solemnly. "This is damaged all right, but preliminary reports indicate it's made out of
something we've never seen before. It's got a structure as impervious to damage as--"
"Yours," joked Duffy.
Pattie looked pleased. "That's not a bad comparison, actually. The difference in that ship's structure and a
normal vessel is, indeed, roughly comparable to the difference between my chitin and your thin human
skin." She extended a limb and delicately patted Duffy's hand.
"The first volley in a war?" theorized Lieutenant Commander Domenica Corsi. The Chief of Security was
always looking for the martial explanation, and sadly, she was often right.
"As I said, I can't imagine a more unlikely target for such an attack than the Intarians," said Abramowitz,
frowning a little. "They don't have a lot of resources other than a pleasant climate and a pleasant people.
Nor do they have an extensive weapons array. On Intar, it's pretty much come when you like, stay as
long as you like, and don't forget to write."
"Nonetheless, we ought to be prepared." Corsi stuck out her chin a little. "I recommend we proceed with
Tactical Code Level--"
Gold held up a hand. "No life signs, Corsi. No one to fight. No one on the long range sensors hovering
about watching like vultures, either."
"Captain, there's always the chance the ship was crewed by a kind of life form we haven't yet
encountered. Our scans wouldn't necessarily detect them," Corsi pointed out. "Or, it could be a trap."
She sat up a little straighter in her chair, utilizing her always intimidating height to its best advantage even
when seated. "The entire ship could be a threat. A bomb of some kind. It could explode at any moment.
I repeat, I recommend--"
"Duly noted, Commander," said Gold, his voice slightly harder than before. "But let's do a little
investigating before we declare this planet a war zone, okay?"
Her eyes flashed, but Corsi settled back in her chair. She pressed her lips together tightly. Faulwell
suspected that Gold was going to pay for that one next time he veered from the regs one iota. Gomez
gave the security chief a reassuring smile, but Corsi would not relax.
"Lieutenant Commander Corsi does have a point." It was Dr. Elizabeth Lense speaking. "The vessel
could be automated. It could have been programmed to crash, especially if it's as tough as Pattie's
theorizing. Is there any indication that there was a crew aboard?"
"No way to tell without investigating it with our own eyes," said Geordi. "But that impact was pretty
rough. Despite its thick hide, that ship's banged up quite a bit. Unless they were secured and protected
somehow, humanoid bodies probably couldn't have survived that kind of crash even if the vessel itself
did."
"Non-humanoid bodies could," said Faulwell, speaking up. His mind was already racing with the
possibilities. He needed to narrow it down as much as he could in order to determine which branch of
linguistics would be most effective to research. Armed with at least a rough idea of what to look for, he'd
have a better chance translating the data they would retrieve from the ship's computer banks. As far as he
was concerned, other than the concern a caring person must always feel at loss of life, he was relieved
that there were no living beings aboard that ship to try to talk to.
He noticed that Carol, however, looked keenly disappointed. They'd called her in for her knowledge
about the Intarians, not to speculate about the crew of the ship. There would be no First Contact this
time.
"Early indications are that the environment inside the ship is a nitrogen-oxygen mix, similar to Earth's. But
that's no guarantee that the crew was humanoid," said Geordi. He smiled a little. "We'll find out soon
enough."
"So, here's the situation." Gold leaned forward and laced his fingers together on the table. "The ship has
deliberately plowed into the heart of downtown. It's far less damaged than it ought to be for the impact it
took. It is inactive at the moment, but we're still getting signals. No signs of life, but as Corsi astutely
pointed out, that doesn't mean that something's not still alive in there. Now, sensors indicate there's only
one central command area in the thing. Pattie, you get to examine the outside."
"Certainly, Captain." She wriggled several of her legs. "I could use a little exercise."
Gold continued. "If we can get a transporter lock inside, You five--Commander La Forge, Gomez,
Duffy, Faulwell, and 110--will be transporting into a ship about which we know absolutely nothing.
Anything can happen, or nothing."
"In short," said Duffy, grinning, "an assignment much like any other."
But Faulwell wasn't laughing. Out of the corner of his eye, Bart hand noticed that the Bynar had
physically shuddered at the news that he--it?--was being assigned to the team. It was, as a Vulcan would
say, the only logical choice. 110 was their computer specialist, until Starfleet sent them another one. 110
had been very brave up until now, expressing a willingness to continue with his work despite what had to
be--had to be--extreme personal grief. But it was clearly taking a toll on the little fellow. He'd already
delayed going home once. Now this had come up.
Even as Bart regarded the Bynar with sympathy, 110 straightened, pulled his tiny shoulders back, and
resolutely lifted his large, hairless head. Faulwell was filled with admiration.
Jaldark? If you are conducting a test of some sort, you may cease. I am starting to worry. Please, please
come in.
The worried face of the Intari Makestru, the leader of his people, appeared on the viewscreen. "Captain
Gold," he said anxiously. "You are a welcome sight. We have done nothing, as per orders from Starfleet,
but I must say, it's been alarming having this ship just sitting there in our capital city."
"I'm certain is has," soothed Gold. "We're preparing to transport our people over to the ship. We'll
contact you once we have the situation well in hand."
"We are grateful." The image blinked out. On the screen now was the strange, seemingly dead ship. Gold
took a breath, said a quick prayer, and instructed the away team to report to the transporter room.
As they gathered in the transporter room, Sonya Gomez was still a bit on edge from the confrontation
she'd had with Domenica Corsi. Normally, she got along with "Core Breach" Corsi better than anyone
else aboard the da Vinci. But Corsi was still stinging from the rebuff she'd gotten from Gold during the
briefing. While Gomez was heading for the transporter room, Corsi had fallen in step beside her and
insisted that she be allowed to accompany the away team.
"There's no indication that that will be necessary, Dom," Gomez had said as sympathetically as she could.
"There's no indication that it won't," Corsi had retorted.
"Look," Gomez had finally said, exasperated, "the captain wants you on the bridge. And I think he's right.
Suppose something does go wrong? We'll need you up here in case that ship proves to be a danger to
the Intarians."
When even that logic failed to placate the chief security officer, Gomez had added, "That's an order,
Lieutenant Commander."
She disliked pulling rank, especially here, with this crew, where at times it seemed so unnecessary. They
had worked together long enough that everyone knew what to do and usually didn't need to be told. She
especially disliked having to do it with Corsi, who was generally the one keeping all the rest of them on
their toes with regards to regulations, protocol, and proper rank deportment. Corsi had stiffened, drawn
herself up to her full and imposing height, fixed Gomez with an icy stare, replied, "Yes, Commander" in a
cold voice, and stalked off.
Gomez wasn't superstitious, but this was a bad way to start a mission. Her boots rang loudly as she
stepped onto the transporter pad.
"Core Breach got you?" asked Kieran Duffy.
"Kaboom," she replied softly. He grinned a little, then looked away quickly. Too quickly. It would take
more time than this to get used to each other again.
Geordi, too, was smiling. She felt a trace of annoyance. She didn't want La Forge to see any division in
the ranks, any hint that she couldn't take care of subordinates. She wished Gold hadn't ordered him to
accompany the away team. This ought to have been her mission.
It was only now that she realized that 110 was missing. Her dark brows drew together in a frown.
"Where is--"
The door hissed open. 110 stood there for a moment, looking around as if lost. Gomez's vexation with
Geordi evaporated. Damn it, 110 seemed so very tiny, so very fragile in his envirosuit. So...alone. There
was something very strange to her about seeing a single Bynar, something wrong about it. Like watching
a Vulcan laugh at a joke. That wasn't the way this culture was meant to be.
Were they pushing him too hard? Was 110 really ready for another assignment without a chance to
properly mourn and reconnect with his people?
Hesitantly at first, then with more determination, 110 moved into the room. He clambered onto the tran
sporter pad and craned his neck to look up at first La Forge and then Gomez with unreadable dark eyes.
"We--I--apologize for being late, Commander."
"Don't worry about it, 110," said Gomez with more warmth than she had intended to show.
She looked up at Wong, who was awaiting their order to transport.
"Energize," said Gomez.
....Jaldark...?
They materialized in Hell.
The command center looked like a torture chamber to a horrified Duffy. It was a huge domed area, but
there was no skylight letting in the softening light of the stars. The area was completely enclosed. There
appeared to be no exits. All was metal, heavy and cumbersome looking. Everything seemed the
same--the arching ceiling, the consoles, the walls. What little light there was was red and eerie, casting a
pulsing, bloody hue over the alien equipment and the macabre centerpiece of the disturbing scene.
For in the center of the room, its decaying limbs splayed at an odd angle, a corpse was strapped into a
chair.
"So it did have a crew," said La Forge softly, sadly.
"Or at least a pilot," said Gomez. Duffy admired the calmness of her voice. Sometimes it was hard to
believe this was the same big-eyed girl who'd spilled hot chocolate all over Captain Picard just a few
short years ago. But of course, she wasn't really the same. She had changed, just as he had, in the
intervening decade or so. Gomez stepped forward and shone her wristlight over the humanoid body.
La Forge and Duffy and stepped beside her. Duffy began to take tricorder readings.
"As Lieutenant La Forge reported earlier, the atmosphere in here is perfectly breathable," he said to
whoever was listening. "It never shut down after the pilot's death. That's why the body's rotting."
"Let's not take our suits off just yet, shall we?" said La Forge. Faulwell and 110, less interested in the
dead body than in the computer that might be coaxed to yield information, stepped over to the consoles
and began to analyze them. They spoke together in low voices, Faulwell occasionally bending over to
hear 110 better. They seemed to be having a hard time figuring out where to begin. For the first time in a
while, Duffy heard the oddly musical sound of the Bynar language as 110 adjusted the blinking buffer he
always kept at his side. Duffy wondered why 110 was talking in his native tongue. Could he simply have
forgotten there was no one here who could understand him?
La Forge tapped his comm badge. "La Forge to da Vinci."
"Go ahead, La Forge," came Gold's voice.
"It appears there was a crew on this vessel, Captain," La Forge continued. Duffy examined his tricorder
as he spoke. Out of the corner of his eye, Duffy saw something on the floor and directed his tricorder at
it.
"A single pilot," said La Forge. "Humanoid. It appears to be female."
"Injured in the crash?"
"Negative. It looks as though she was strapped into the seat. Hard to say how long she's been dead.
Long enough for decay to set in." La Forge stepped closer to the corpse, his face almost touching that of
the dead pilot. "No obvious trauma."
Duffy knelt and regarded the piece of equipment on the floor. According to his readings, it was the alien
equivalent of a tricorder. Gingerly, he reached to pick it up. It was about the size of an old-style tricorder
and weighed about as much. They could take this back to the ship and analyze it while Faulwell and 110
continued to work on the computer here.
He glanced over at the linguist and the Bynar, and frowned to himself. 110 seemed to be having a hard
time cracking the ship's computer, and Faulwell was looking a tad impatient. I'm sure it would be much
faster if 111 was still with us, Duffy thought. Although even a single Bynar is usually several times faster
than any human in accessing a computer.
"No, wait," said Gomez. She was squatting on the other side of the humanoid in the chair, examining the
fastenings. "Look at this, Commander."
Both Duffy and La Forge moved to shine their wristlights where Gomez had indicated. La Forge inhaled
swiftly, but otherwise gave no indication of how startled he must be. Duffy gaped, seasoned Starfleet
officer though he was.
"Correction, Captain Gold," Geordi said. "The pilot appears to be impaled upon the chair."
That got Bart's attention. His head whipped around and he gazed, frowning, at the corpse in the chair.
Leaving the Bynar alone for the moment with the conundrum of the computer that would not yield its
information, he strode quickly over to the rest of the team.
摘要：

STARTREKS.C.EHARDCRASHByChristieGoldenOurcommunicationsystemappearstobedamaged.Iamreceivingnoresponsefromyou.Jaldark,pleasecomein.Youneedtoeffectrepairssothatwecancommunicate.Jaldark,pleasecomein.Jaldark,respond.Please.TlaimonKassantsippedacupofhotjiksn.Hehadthelateshift,thesolitaryshift,andhelikedi...

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