Star Trek: Voyager: Children of the Storm Page 8

  His fellow engineers were focusing on ways to realign the drive to reduce the potential for fractures. But Phinn believed that they needed to find a way to reverse the damage. He believed benamite could be recrystalized, though the technology to do so didn’t exist at this point. With another two weeks to work on it, however, Phinn was certain he could design a matrix to recrystalize the benamite. But as he worked on a sketch of the device’s innards, his eyelids stubbornly drooped.

  In an instant, the warmth and low light of his cabin were replaced by icy blackness. His stomach heaved as he felt the motion of flight. He was traveling through an unending night at terrifying speed. Anger and fear urged him on.

  Phinn jumped as his nervous system shocked him back to alertness. His padd was lying on his lap and a thin strand of saliva was hanging from his open mouth. Running his sleeve across his mouth, he decided he really needed to get some sleep, but his heart was still racing. Fearing that if he let himself drop off again, he might find himself in that unpleasant dream—he hated flying dreams—he sat up straight in his bunk and studied his schematic.

  Within minutes, another heavy, irresistible wave of weariness flowed over him. His mind refused to succumb, continuing to realign the matrix’s magnetic resonators even as he felt himself rising from the solid bunk beneath him.

  The blackness was nauseating and disorienting, but the speed was more manageable this time. There was something in front of him—a solid wall of metal. He had to avoid impact. A silent scream stuck in his throat as he continued through the barrier before him, and suddenly, he was still. All around him were long bays filled with something dark—soil. He realized that the shoots of green and occasional dazzling color had to be flowers and plants.

  As horrifying as the flight to this beautiful garden had been, once he had arrived, he was overwhelmed by the sheer joy of his discovery. The colors seemed to glow ever brighter, and he began to float toward the blossoms nearest him.

  He was hovering over a tiny purple bud, tingling with delight, when a shrill sound brought him back to consciousness. Before he was fully awake he had jumped up, banging his head on the bunk above him, where, from the sound of it, his roommate, Ensign Nathan, was stirring.

  “Is that …?” Nathan asked groggily.

  “Yellow Alert,” Phinn confirmed.

  Damn it.

  He knew he should be looking for his boots in case what was obviously an emergent situation escalated, but he sat again, grabbing his padd, determined to squeeze a few more minutes of work in before he was summoned to less interesting duty. With his free hand he took the now cold cup of coffee from his bedside table and finished it off in two big gulps, relying on the caffeine to eliminate the risk of further dreams.

  “Report,” Farkas ordered as she stepped onto the bridge. It was both gratifying and unnerving that her suspicions about the Children of the Storm had apparently been proven right.

  Lieutenant Psilakis, who’d had command for gamma shift, immediately rose from the bridge’s center seat to fill her in.

  “Three hundred and forty-seven contacts that conform to the description we have of the Children of the Storm’s vessels are approaching our position, Captain.”

  “Time to intercept?”

  “Approximately ten minutes,” Psilakis replied unhappily.

  “How the hell did three hundred plus ships get this close to us without warning?” Farkas demanded. She knew Jepel had just started his shift at ops, so this wasn’t necessarily his fault, but his predecessor, along with gamma tactical, was going to spend the next three years doing waste reclamation unless her question had a really good answer.

  “We don’t know, Captain,” Psilakis replied.

  Not good enough.

  “Lieutenant Denisov?” Farkas barked at her security chief. “That debris field is two light-years from our position, so it couldn’t have masked their signals this long. They’re practically right on top of us.”

  “The debris field must have somehow masked them, Captain,” was Denisov’s frustrated response. “Sensors show that one minute they weren’t there and the next second, they were. And their speed is …” His voice trailed off.

  “What?” Farkas asked.

  “The equivalent of warp 9.9,” Denisov replied.

  Farkas knew there wasn’t time for them to figure this out now. Shifting gears, she ordered Jepel to begin transmitting friendship messages on all channels as her first officer, Commander Roach, hurried to his post at her side.

  “You picked a hell of a morning to oversleep, Commander,” Farkas warned.

  “Apologies, Captain,” he replied. “I can’t remember the last time I slept that deeply.”

  “Another time,” Farkas cut him off as she assumed her seat and began to analyze data. An unexpected sight tweaked her last available nerve.

  “What is Demeter doing here?” she spat harshly.

  Psilakis stepped into the fray for Roach. “They arrived a few hours ago to provide a supply transfer to Planck.”

  “I knew that was happening, but they shouldn’t have been here for another day at least,” Farkas replied. “Which part of approach at impulse speed do we think Captain T’Mar didn’t understand?” she added in disbelief. It was altogether possible that the abrupt appearance of what seemed to be a hostile alien force was the result of Demeter’s hurried arrival. Farkas silently cursed T’Mar before refocusing her attention on the bigger issue.

  “Denisov, coordinate with Planck. Worse comes to worst, we’re going to need to protect Demeter,” she ordered.

  “We’ve received word from Commander Fife,” Denisov replied. “He wants to make a run for it.”

  Is he viewing a different tactical display than I am? “Tell him to hold position,” Farkas shot back. “The last thing we need right now is more area to defend, especially when they’ve got that many ships. There’s no way he can outrun them unless he plots a slipstream jump, and there’s not time for that.” As fast as the aliens were approaching, Farkas wasn’t even sure that would get the job done. “How big are those ships, Gregor?” she asked Denisov.

  “That’s the only good news, Captain,” he replied. “Two of them could fit inside one of our workbees.”

  “What they lack in size, they more than make up for in numbers,” Farkas reminded him.

  “Of course, Captain.”

  Visions of the nearby Borg graveyard danced through Farkas’s head. No one had any idea how the Children of the Storm had managed to thrash the Borg so soundly, but the captain silently feared they were about to find out.

  “Are our sensors telling us anything about them that we don’t already know?” she asked Jepel.

  “Not at this distance, Captain,” he replied as he studied the ops readouts. “Each vessel is composed of a high-frequency energy field with no discernible means of propulsion and no obvious weapons systems. Atmosphere within the vessels is essentially semifluid liquid metal hydrogen, and each vessel shows hundreds of life-form readings within.”

  “Any response to our greetings?” she asked, already dreading Jepel’s response.

  “No, Captain,” he replied.

  Farkas took a deep breath. “Helm, hold position. Shields to maximum, warm up the phasers and load the torpedo tubes. I don’t want to destroy three hundred and forty-seven vessels, each containing hundreds of sentient beings, without so much as a ‘how do you do,’ but we may not have another option. Prepare firing solutions that maximize our weapons’ dispersal and range. At this point we have no reason to believe they’re not vulnerable to phaser fire, but everybody feel free to imagine the worst and figure out how we’re going to survive it.”

  “Sal to Farkas.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief at the thought that the Children of the Storm might just be coming to talk after all, the captain replied, “Go ahead.”

  “I’m sure you’re busier than an armless dabo girl up there, but you need to report to sickbay immediately.”

  “Is it Ti�
��Ana?” Farkas asked as she rose from her seat.

  “It used to be. Whoever is speaking through her now didn’t give a name, but they asked to speak to the individual in command of this vessel.”

  “I’m on my way,” Farkas replied. The captain hated to leave the bridge at a moment like this. “Commander Roach, you have the bridge.” En route to the turbolift, she almost plowed into Commander Psilakis.

  “You’re off duty, Commander,” she reminded him.

  “Permission to remain on the bridge and observe, Captain?” he requested. He had to feel like hell about this, and she didn’t want to deny him the opportunity to redeem himself.

  She nodded and turned back to Roach. “Keep a comm signal open to me at all times, Commander. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Aye, sir,” Roach replied.

  An unpleasant twinge in her gut made one last recommendation. “And take us to Red Alert.”

  U.S.S. DEMETER

  Commander Fife disagreed with Captain Farkas’s assessment of the situation. He had asked Lieutenant Url, Demeter’s senior tactical officer, to run multiple simulations to reduce the time required to plot a safe slipstream jump. He knew that, in a pinch, Url could have the ship safely on its way in nine and a half minutes. Of course, he’d already lost more than thirty seconds he’d had once he reached the bridge waiting for Captain Farkas to countermand his decision.

  Despite Farkas’s orders, Url continued calculating a safe exit vector for the slipstream corridor at Fife’s request. There was still a chance that Url might succeed before the alien vessels were in range, and then Fife would have a decision to make. Should he disregard Captain Farkas’s order to hold their position, or should he do what he thought best to get his crew to safety?

  Most frustrating of all was the knowledge that it wasn’t his call to make. On any other Starfleet vessel, the captain would be on the bridge at a moment like this, and Fife would offer counsel but ultimately would leave the final choice to his superior. The conversation he’d had with Admiral Batiste before the fleet launched now haunted him.

  “You’ve been selected to support Commander O’Donnell because he will need the most capable first officer we can possibly provide him. We both know you’re on the fast track for a command of your own and this mission might not seem like your best career move, but believe me when I tell you, it is. O’Donnell is the best genetic botanist in the Federation, but he knows ass-all about tactics and weapons. His seniority and experience make him the logical commander of Demeter, but he’s been landlocked for most of his career and will need a stellar second-in-command. He won’t get in your way, and he’ll defer to you if the going should get tough. Be ready to step in, but understand that the commander’s rank is not a formality. He’ll need your support, and he’ll probably annoy the hell out of you, but your job is to make this work.”

  It was an odd arrangement, but Fife was sure he was up to it. And for the first several weeks of the mission, he’d had no cause to regret his assignment. The few conversations they’d had had been similar enough to the exchange they’d had a few hours ago about Planck that Fife wondered if the captain would bother coming to the bridge. Except this is one of the few instances in which he did ask to be informed.

  Fife watched the aliens moving closer, marveling at their speed in the absence of a visible means of propulsion and knowing he was running out of time.

  “Lieutenant Url, what is our best time to engage the slipstream drive?” he asked, steeling his voice so that not a hint of the frustration he felt was evident.

  “Seven minutes, sir,” Url replied.

  We have five at the most, Fife calculated.

  Ensign Vincent at ops cleared his throat and asked the obvious question.

  “Shouldn’t we advise the captain that we’re about to encounter alien vessels?”

  Normally this wouldn’t have been a hard decision.

  “I will advise the captain when I see fit, Ensign,” Fife replied briskly. “Attend to your station.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  By “when I see fit” Fife had meant, when I think he can actually help us.

  Thus far, O’Donnell couldn’t. But if Url completed his calculations sooner, that would change.

  Fife would give Url two more minutes. And then, like it or not, he would contact O’Donnell. Right now Fife wasn’t sure whom he hated more, his captain or the admiral who had talked him into accepting this impossible commission.

  U.S.S. PLANCK

  Captain T’Mar stood on his bridge, amazed at how quickly his situation had changed. If anyone had told him when he awakened early to oversee Demeter’s supply transfer that within hours he’d come face-to-face with the Children of the Storm, he’d have comfortably bet against them. Now he wondered if he should have requested Demeter’s presence at all. It wasn’t hard to make a case that the timing of the aliens’ arrival and Demeter’s probably wasn’t coincidence, especially since they had approached the area at high warp, despite Farkas’s recommendation. T’Mar had thought Farkas overcautious and chosen not to argue with Fife when he had advised T’Mar that he’d be there in a few hours. In doing so, T’Mar feared he might have damned all three ships.

  All he could do now, however, was hope there would be time later to regret his actions. Between now and then, T’Mar vowed, he would follow Captain Farkas’s requests to the letter. For now that meant readying all weapons systems and coordinating his helm and tactical with Quirinal’s to make sure Demeter was adequately protected. Though part of him would have given anything to make contact with this species, he would also leave that to Farkas.

  Please let this end well, he prayed.

  The sensor readouts of the ships converging on them was stunning. The Children of the Storm moved with a grace and speed that were mind-boggling. The image on the main viewscreen of their approach reminded him of a white-capped wave rolling inexorably forward, seconds away from crashing against a shore. Though it was hard to discern individual ships, it was tempting to perceive these flying spheres as innocuous, so beautiful were they in the abstract. T’Mar knew well enough that the atmosphere inside them was toxic and under extreme pressure, but it was easy to imagine that a child had blown them into existence through a soapy ring.

  They entered the area at what appeared to be their top speed and did not slow until they had broken off into three separate groups. Within seconds, given their trajectories, they would surround each of the three Federation ships.

  Which cannot be allowed, T’Mar decided.

  “Ensign Grim, evasive maneuvers. Keep them off of us and away from Demeter.”

  “Understood,” Grim replied as he tapped the helm controls, firing thrusters to move the ship out of direct range of the alien vessels.

  Grim succeeded for all of fifteen seconds before the aliens altered course and completely surrounded the ship. T’Mar’s display confirmed that Quirinal and Demeter were in exactly the same predicament. It no longer mattered how he moved his ship. Hundreds of discreet round vessels, only a few meters in diameter each, would surely move with him no matter what. He could only wait until Captain Farkas indicated whether this was going to end with a bang or a whimper.

  U.S.S. QUIRINAL

  “Come on, Phinn,” Nathan shouted as he hurried toward their cabin door.

  Phinn had almost completed the algorithm to govern the matrix’s harmonics, and he knew if he stopped now, he’d lose his train of thought completely.

  “Don’t wait on me,” he said, waving Nathan off.

  “That big flashing red light means we move to battle stations, Phinn.”

  “I know.”

  Exhaling in sharp disgust, Nathan exited their cabin.

  “Where x is equal to or greater than the coefficient …” Phinn said aloud, trying to maintain his concentration through the blaring of the alarm.

  Damn it.

  Thirty more seconds and he’d have it.

  He’d also be bucked back to crewman if
he failed to report to his post on time.

  Phinn entered the final calculations into his padd and, while he awaited the analysis, hurriedly stuffed his feet into his boots and reached into his drawer. His hand quickly found his secret weapon, a personal site-to-site transporter he’d created at the Academy for just such emergencies. Because it looked so much like an old watch, if anyone ever asked, he said it was his great-grandfather’s. He’d only had to use it a few times in his career, but this was going to be another of them. He had to hope whatever chaos was breaking loose on board would cover his tracks when the “watch” tapped into the backup transporters.

  Who is ever going to check?

  His rationalization firmly in place, Phinn read the analysis he had requested and confirmed that the algorithm was perfect.

  Problem solved, he thought with a grin, then lightly tapped his wrist, keying in the transport coordinates for his battle station.

  Seconds later he arrived right around the corner from Ensign Sadie Johns, a tall brunette he’d met a few times at this very spot on deck seventeen during drills. He hurried toward her to give the impression that he’d been running all the way from his cabin.

  “You’d be late for your own funeral, wouldn’t you, Bryce?” Johns demanded, clearly miffed to have been guarding this post alone for the few minutes Phinn had taken to finish his calculations.

  “Probably,” Phinn agreed. “Did I miss anything?”

  Johns gave him a withering glance.

  Mentally setting his work of the last several hours aside, Phinn did his best to focus on the task at hand.