Once a man has changed the relationship between himself and his environment, he cannot return to the blissful ignorance he left. Motion, of necessity, involves a change in perspective.
- Commissioner Pravin Lal
"A Social History of Planet"
Stardate 45047.92
Runabout USS Egeira
En Route to Utopia Planetia
"Ensign Sovok to Commander Saratov."
A black haired man was jarred from his sleep inside the cramped bunk room. His hand tapped his combadge wearily. "Go ahead," he replied, doing his best not to sound tired.
"We have dropped out of warp deep into the Sol system. We are approaching Utopia Planetia and will arrive in approximately a quarter of an hour. I suggest you finish securing your personal items."
"Acknowledged. Saratov out."
Victor Saratov looked around and saw that his single duffel bag had already been stuffed to the limit with his personal items. He checked the holographic mirror by the single-panel door and saw that his hair was still neatly combed back. All he could do now was wait.
Mars, a tiny red-orange ball in the distance, grew larger in the cabin's viewport. Victor saw the poles, a beautiful grey-white against the natural rust that was the Martian surface. The massive volcanic mountain, Olympus Mons, was one of the most visible features of the Red Planet.
It's erupting.
It was hard to tell with the runabout being so far away, but a thin line of yellow-orange was flowing down the mountain , forming a small pool near the base of the massive volcano. This is unexpected.
The shipyard complex loomed ahead. Massive stardocks holding all manner of starships, Federation and civilian, some undergoing construction, others refitting, and those just waiting to be launched.
Victor spotted two New Orleans-class frigates, one with the nacelles and struts removed. Probably undergoing engine refit.
As a larger spacedock came into view, Victor's jaw dropped. It was the same shipyard that created the Federation's flagship, Enterprise-D, and now held a ship that was just as lethal.
The Avenger.
Every active duty officer had heard rumours about it. It followed the Nebula-class general construction, but the addition of an upgraded weapons module on the top-rear quarter of the saucer section gave away its identity. The Avenger was not built for exploration; it was designed purely for combat. The advanced science labs and ultra-long range sensors had been removed in favour of more armour and shields.
Avenger was said to be equipped with the newly designed quantum torpedo, developed by the scientists at the R&D department of Groombridge 272-2A. It had roughly twice the damage potential of the standard high-yield photon, yet still retained the same dimensions.
The runabout approached the orbital administration complex, the shuttlebay doors yawning open to meet them. The runabout slowed as it approached, easing itself in gently. With a barely audible thud, the runabout had touched down on its designated pad alongside two other runabouts.
The air of the shuttlebay smelled and tasted metallic, a testament to the amount of time the engineers must have put in every day.
The duffel bag rested comfortably at Victor's side. He approached a much older-looking man, who extended his hand in greeting. Victor took it and shook firmly.
"Admiral Trent. It's been a while."
The older man smiled and laughed, expressing his mirth at the younger man's understatement.
"If you call two years a while! Welcome back, Commander."
"Good to be back, Admiral. How have things been while I've been gone?"
In his mind's eye, Victor saw the past. His first assignment had been at Utopia Planetia, working the industrial replication systems. He had barely been an Ensign then, but rose through the ranks quickly, becoming first officer aboard the Norway-class USS Masada when he was barely twenty-seven.
"Same old, same old. Demand for new ships is increasing every day, but we can only build them so fast. The brass at Starfleet are squeezing us for every drop they can get. But, then again they've been doing so ever since the shipyard complex first came online."
The Admiral made for the turbolift. Victor followed.
"Admiral, sir, why is there demand for new ships? We're not at war with anyone. We haven't been since the whole debacle with the Cardassians."
The doors to the turbolift parted. Both men stepped inside.
"Deck 8," the Admiral said. The Computer chirped and the turbolift car was on its way. "I'm not just talking about new starships, Vic. I mean new starship designs. You've got to admit, some of the ships we have are getting a little worse for the wear."
Victor couldn't dispute that. Vessels like the Excelsior- and Miranda-types had served faithfully in Starfleet for over a century, but many Federation officials felt it was high time some modernizations were introduced.
"Ah, let me guess: Starfleet came knocking on your door."
The admiral nodded. "Yes. Can I let you in on a little secret?"
Victor smiled. "I'm all ears."
"We've already got a preliminary design. Project Sovereign."
"Sovereign?" Victor had heard that before. "With respect, sir, Project Sovereign was first started in 2338. Don't you think it's getting a little old to use by now?"
"What you don't know," the Admiral responded, smiling slightly, "is that we've been updating project Sovereign secretly. Since 2340, there've been five design updates."
"Then why was the vessel not built?"
"Well, for one…it's larger than the Galaxy class and requires a more powerful warp core assembly, meaning we'd have to expend the resources that would equal the building cost of twelve Oberth-class science vessels."
"That much?" Vic was sceptical. "Admiral, are you sure that such a large ship design is really necessary?"
The Admiral shrugged. "In the Starship Design Bureau, it's mostly about taking shots in the dark. The problem is, the war with the Cardassians has cost us so much that up until now, we've had very little room for a project of the Sovereign's scope."
The turbolift stopped. The doors opened. "I've had to move to a new office. I got bumped by some young bloke who is supposedly here on 'temporary reassignment'." He coated the last words with the slightest bit of venom.
Victor understood far too well how the Admiral felt. Temporary assignments were always long, anywhere from eight months to a year. That was if the person being reassigned was lucky. For others, like Victor himself, temporary assignments could easily turn into new duty postings.
The Admiral's new office was smaller than the previous, but was still opulently decorated with ancient bladed weaponry dating back to the sixteen hundreds as well as a bookshelf filled with the finest twentieth century authors had to give. The Admiral took a seat behind his desk.
"Sit down, Commander, so I can finally tell you why you've been called here."
The Commander obeyed.
Admiral Trent pulled open one of his desk drawers, retrieving a datapad and handing it to Victor.
There was only a small amount of golden-orange text displayed on the screen, and Victor read it through quickly. He stopped, and read it again.
The padd dropped out of his hand and clattered to the Admiral's desk.
"You have got to be kidding me."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stardate 45047.93
Medical Vessel Hippocrates
Psychological Evaluation Ward
The sun cast a dull gleam across the desert, sending rippling mirages off the dunes, making the distant horizon appear to bend and quiver, idly reminding a robed figure holding a walking stick of ancient make that escape was all but impossible.
Erika Winters let out a long sigh, turning around and carefully making her way down a particularly steep dune.
The desert reminded her of a book she had read long ago as a child, "Dune", written by a man who was reputed to be one of the best authors of the twentieth century. Not that it did her any help in what was for all intents and purposes a wasteland.
She approached the mouth of a cave set into a particularly large rock formation, entered and threw her hood back. Her neck felt irrepressibly itchy, a testament to the fact that when one walked through the desert, sand could get anywhere and everywhere on a person's body. There was no avoiding it.
Her long copper-red hair felt virtually saturated with sand…maybe the desert nomads out here did have a thing going for their complete lack of hair. Her cobalt-blue eyes focused on one such desert dweller, there eyes meeting.
"God does not play dice," he quoted.
"I've already heard that one," she said, starting to get irritated. "Go away."
She followed a long series of tunnels around until she found her own temporary quarters, little more than a dead end tunnel with wadded up cloth that served as a bed as well as a few other odds and ends. With another sigh she plopped down on to her makeshift bed.
She cast a quick glance to the wall near the end of the tunnel's entrance, certain that Doctor B'tan was watching her through what was most likely a two-way holographic projection.
For the past twelve days, the desert—or at least the simulation of a desert—had been her home. Ordinarily, with most holographic programs, one could simply shut it down by uttering the phrase "End program". Unfortunately, Erika had no such luxury. She was in the program for the duration, with a rather large portion of the vocal commands suspended. And chances were damned good the control console for the holodeck was buried in solid rock.
"Computer, access musical database." A sharp chirp acknowledged her command. "Musical selection: 'Dust in the Wind'."
The first soft chords of the guitar were projected through what were supposedly solid rock walls.
"I close my eyes, only for a moment then the moment's gone…"
It was her soon-to-be-husband's favourite song from the twentieth century. It conveyed many messages…but some she couldn't grasp. Esteban Hidalgo had, though.
Esteban had been the only one Erika had ever truly had any feelings for. Growing up, going to the academy, she'd been careful to avoid any emotional attachments. She never bothered thinking why; but early on it became apparent that it was one of the better things she'd done in her life when her father died during her second year at the Academy.
"All my dreams…pass before my eyes, a curiosity…"
After she'd graduated in the top fifteen percent of her class, she'd been assigned to the Akira, the first of the Akira-class starships, as junior tactical officer. Esteban was a year older and was assigned the primary Ops position.
"Dust in the wind…all we are is dust in the wind…"
Esteban had been the one person of the entire crew to penetrate the thick armour that Erika had erected around herself. There was a period of simple friendship, and then…
That was when Erika had broken one of the most important rules she had set for herself.
"It's the same old song…we're just a drop of water in an endless sea! All we do just crumbles to the ground though we refuse to see…Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind…"
It had happened during what was supposed to be a simple routine patrol in the hind end of Federation space. There was a distress call from a Federation freighter, being raided by the Maquis Resistance.
Four heavily modified Peregrine-II assault fighters had already raided and captured the freighter. They set their sights on the Akira, coming in hard and fast…almost too fast for the phaser targeting systems to track.
"Don't hang on….nothing lasts forever, but the earth and sky. It slips away, and all your money won't another minute buy…"
A lucky torpedo had managed to bypass the Akira's shields and strike the bridge, shearing a large amount of one bulkhead away.
The section where Esteban had been standing.
The emergency containment field had snapped into place in mere seconds. But it was long enough for Esteban's feet to be lifted off the ground and sucked into space.
"Dust in the wind…"
The tactical officer had been beamed to sickbay a minute after, catching a console discharge full in the face. Erika had automatically taken his place.
And made those bastards pay.
"All we are is dust in the wind…"
She destabilized a week or so afterwards. She just wanted to be left alone. But the crew felt some form of responsibility to try to cheer her up.
It was after she had thrown one unlucky Ensign against the bulkhead the Captain had her transferred aboard the Hippocrates, a medical frigate. She'd been on board for approximately one month before her "tactile environment treatment" had started.
"Dust in the wind…"
Doctor B'Tan, an Alpha Centauran, had claimed that all he wanted to do was to help her get over her feelings and to understand her grief.
The truth is, I'm not sure I understand myself.
As she realized this, the copper-haired young officer let the tears of rage and frustration flow free.
"Everything is dust in the wind…"