PROLOUGE
Captain Alex Chan coughed violently as acrid plasma smoke filled his lungs. His eyes turned red, straining to see down the corridor, but exploding power conduits and the gathering fog made navigation nearly impossible. There had been no indication of a problem before a massive explosion rocked the ship, and damage was extensive. The corridor wall was hot to the touch, nearly scalding, but it provided Chan's only means of navigation. Four bulkheads down, the bridge door should have kept most of the damage decks one and two received out of the command center – if he could only get there before he passed out from asphyxiation.
This isn't how my first command is supposed to end, he thought as he groped his way along the corridor to the second bulkhead. He could remember his assignment to the Ticonderoga like it was yesterday. A plasma conduit exploded behind the bulkhead opposite him in the corridor, throwing hot shrapnel against his face and hurling him into the bulkhead wall. He collapsed and moaned, rolling over, feeling the blood flowing from his face. After making sure his mouth and right eye were intact, he tapped his communicator.
"Chan to the bridge, I'm in the corridor, medical emergency..." His voice trailed into a fit of coughs as a console overloaded above his head, showering him in sparks. Chan was vaguely aware of his First Officer's response as he faded into unconsciousness.
"Hell of a ship, Alex. Hell of a ship. Warp 9.95, if you can find somewhere wide enough to open 'er up!" Admiral Charles Sasso laughed uproariously, as he often did. A large, imposing man, the Admiral held the current record for the youngest flag officer in Starfleet after the Dominion War. Sasso and Chan walked along the windows of the mess hall aboard the USS Ticonderoga, a Nova-Class science vessel fresh out of the yard.
"Yes Sir. It's only a shame she flies herself apart at that speed."
"Well, she will with that attitude!" Sasso responded quickly and laughed again. Chan managed to smile and chuckle a bit. A mild-mannered scientist, Chan had been rather surprised at the offer of a commission. He had been content to work in the Astrophysical Research division at Starfleet Academy; that all changed when his transport had been boarded by the Jem'Hadar during the early days of the war. The two men approached the replicator. "Coffee?"
"Please." Captain Chan sat as Admiral Sasso brought their drinks. Chan took a sip. "Thank you, sir."
"I'm sure you'll grow to loathe replicated coffee by the end of this thing, Alex. The longest I've ever been out is seven years. You're looking at nearly ten."
"Where no man has gone before, I suppose. Have you received our fleet assignment?"
"I have." The Admiral waved his aide to the table. The Ticonderoga had been assigned to the Federation Extraplanar Survey, a deep-space research mission charting the areas above and below the Galactic plane of the Milky Way. Over a hundred research vessels were participating from dozens of Federation planets. The aide handed the Admiral a PADD. "Thank You."
"Where are we headed, sir?"
"You'll be arriving at DS9 at 1800 tomorrow to take on your new crew – 37 shiny new ensigns, fresh out of the Academy. Then you'll depart at your discretion on a course of 180 mark 045, headed to the Argolis Cluster and Messier 22. You'll start the survey about a year after departure and begin your return trip in seven years. Our estimates put over 400 uncharted systems on your flight plan. Once you leave DS9, there won't be any Federation Outposts along your course, so ensure your ship is prepared before departure." The admiral took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. "I feel for you Chan, I do. Any questions?"
"Only one, Sir. If anything happens out there-"
"We'll do our best to dispatch other FEPS vessels to help you. But other than that, you're on your own."
"Understood, Admiral."
Admiral Sasso stood. "You've got a hell of a ship and a hell of a mission, Captain Chan. Good luck to you."
Chan Stood and took the Admiral's hand, shaking it. "Thank you, sir. See you in ten years, I suppose."
"Captain? Captain!" Commander Adam Patterson's voice roused the Captain nearly as much as the hypospray. The flashing red alert lights and smoke filling the bridge brought back memories of the corridor. They found me.
Chan sat up. Coughing, he leaned against his command chair. "Report."
His first officer sat next to him, speaking quickly. "The entity opened some kind of an aperture and we finally managed to get readings from inside its outer shell. As soon as we did, we experienced a massive systems failure. Unfortunately, we didn't have time to get the shields up before we lost Ops. The entity fired some kind of an energy burst – we aren't sure what. We've completely lost decks five through seven forward of section three, at least a dozen casualties, probably more. Engineering reports magnetic confinement power is rapidly dropping and we've lost the starboard nacelle due to an overload."
The Captain looked at Patterson. "You're saying we've lost the ship."
Patterson stared at him for a seemingly long moment. "I believe we have, Sir."
Chan stood, stretched and sat back in his chair. He adjusted his uniform. "Very well. All hands, report to emergency escape pods. Abandon ship. Repeat, abandon ship." He turned to Commander Patterson. "Is the communications array functional?"
"No, Sir, we lost the full forward array in the attack."
"Link the transceivers on all three shuttlecraft together. Record and transmit the following message!"
Patterson dove for the operations console. After tapping a few controls, he looked up at Chan. "I've got two of them, Sir, it's the best we'll get. Go ahead."
Chan lurched as another power conduit exploded, destroying the tactical console. Fires were starting to break out behind shattered panels, and plasma smoke was filling the bridge. He stood on his bridge for the last time.
"This is Captain Alexander Chan of the Federation Starship Ticonderoga to Starfleet Command. We have encountered an unknown spaceborne organism in Sector 875. It has critically damaged our vessel and I have ordered the ship abandoned. We are reques-" his sentence was cut short as the operations console exploded in a shower of sparks. Patterson was thrown Against the wall, his scream cut off with a crunch as the bulkhead snapped his spine. Chan stood to his feet again, unsteadily. His side felt warm.
"We are requesting immediate assistance from anyone in range! Our coordinates are eight seven five one..."
An enormous explosion began to rip upward along the remnants of the saucer section on the viewscreen, headed for the bridge. Chan watched helplessly as his ship tore itself apart down the middle along exploding power conduits. The final blast was less painful than Chan expected. He saw a yellow light, and felt a burning sensation before the world faded to black.
Chapter One
Dawn broke slowly over San Francisco, the Sun straining to clear the Sierras as the indigo sky turned blue. The ever-present radiative fog, once a permanent feature in the Bay area, vanished in less than a second as the clock turned from 04:59 to 05:00, a blueish-green ionic shock wave racing throughout it - a product of Starfleet Headquarters' weather modification network. Almost as soon as the fog had cleared, the first of the nearly constant shuttlecraft launches of the day began. Lights blinked on in the barracks of Starfleet academy. Hover transit craft began their daily runs. Officers coming off night duty staggered bleary-eyed into mess halls for breakfast. The daily whirlwind of activity at Starfleet Command had begun.
At Sutro Subspace Relay Station, however, very little changed with the coming of a new day. At the station, perched high above Starfleet Headquarters on Forest Hill, very little occurred outside of the routine. The array received incoming subspace transmissions from throughout the Federation and beyond, while its staff routed data to the appropriate offices within headquarters. Security was high at the station; its staff was sequestered within the compound throughout their entire tour of duty. Due to the high degree of isolation, recent Academy graduates frequently found themselves luxuriously imprisoned within its duranium walls to train for long-duration deep space missions. Ensign Gloria Gilliam was one such recent graduate.
Gilliam stood on a high balcony of the outpost, much as she did every morning, leaning against the railing and enjoying a cup of coffee as she watched Headquarters spring to life. The ocean breeze picked up her long red hair, which she had just let down at the end of another uneventful shift. The 22-year old half-Betazoid, half-Human had graduated as an Ensign only seven months prior, and had recently gained a promotion for increasing routing efficiency by over fifteen percent at the Sutro Relay Station. Her bright blue eyes flashed across the horizon as the first rays of the sun began to strike the station. She took a sip of coffee as a formation of three type nine shuttlecraft accelerated past the subspace antenna array. Gilliam could almost feel the heat of their impulse engines as they pitched up, steepening their ascent out of the atmosphere.
The relay station itself hadn't been a particularly exciting assignment. Gilliam found the tedium of routing subspace transmissions nearly maddening, but the pace of work was similar to what she'd see as a bridge operations officer on a starship. Ever since her father had brought her onto the bridge of his first command, the USS Yosemite, she had dreamt of working on a starship bridge. She had only two weeks remaining in her tour of duty, and after months at the station, she could do two weeks standing on her head. She was just about to finish her coffee when the balcony doors opened behind her with a hiss.
"Ensign, I'm glad I caught you." Commander Gordon Mueller stepped through the open threshold, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the sunlight as he stepped out of the darkened facility. "Are you just coming off your shift?"
"Yes, sir, but it's alright – what can I do for you?" Gilliam responded, straightening up. Commander Mueller had spoken to her only once before, when she reported for duty. He wasn't known for making small talk with his staff.
"We've received a rather unusual transmission. A Cardassian ship transporting Federation POWs from a remote Dominion prison facility picked up a distress signal with a Starfleet signature, but it was heavily corrupted. They've forwarded it to us for transmission to Starfleet Command."
Gilliam looked at him with a slightly perplexed expression on her face, her freckles becoming more prominent as her cheeks flushed. He sensed he should continue. "I've noticed the quality of your work over your tour, Gilliam, and I've been impressed. I want you to help me clear this message up – when I send it to Starfleet Command I want it to be understood. Report to the analysis lab at 0630." Mueller looked at her expectantly as he began to turn back towards the door.
"Yes, sir!" Gilliam straightened herself formally, nearly spilling her drink before a look of recognition crossed her face. "Commander Mueller, the Cardassian ship – the POWs – do you know where they're from? What ship?"
Mueller shook his head. "No. Sorry. I'll see if we can find out but I doubt it. See you at 0630." He stepped through the door which closed behind him, but Gilliam didn't notice the pneumatic hiss this time. Her thoughts were thousands of light years away as her coffee grew colder.
Captain Henry Gilliam was one of the most battle-hardened veterans of the Dominion War. During his command aboard the USS Baikonur, Captain Gilliam led the third Starfleet assault wing in the assault on the shipyards on T'Qoros 3. This initial victory was followed by months of combat duty during the war's stalemate until her destruction at the hands of the Breen in the Chin'toka system. After the war, the captain had been excited for his first deep-space exploratory mission; his wife dead in the Borg incursion and his only daughter grown and in the academy, he embraced the offer of the USS Hawking-B, an Intrepid-class vessel on a mission to push deeper towards the galactic core than any previous Federation starship. Less than six months after departing Starbase Deep Space 7, the Hawking ceased responding to communications. Over the last five years, the ship had never been heard from again.
Gloria Gilliam's last contact with him had been the week before he left. Even then, it was her first contact with her father in years. Her mother's death at Wolf 359 had hardened him. It hadn't ended well. She shook the memories away and returned to her quarters to rest, at least briefly, before meeting the Commander.
Chapter Two
The tunnel was pitch-dark, noticeably dry, and cold as the Klingon strode confidently through the blackness. It was a corridor he had been down before only once, but his warrior's instinct knew every step of the corridor. He would not be surprised a second time.
Seventeen point three meters. Exactly 14 steps from the bulkhead.
He stopped in the darkness. Without hesitating, he sidestepped to his left, and pressed his body against the bulkhead walls. As he leaned against it, he slid his hulking form along the wall, back in the direction he came. In the blackened corridor, the gap was invisible – it was barely over a quarter meter wide. The bulkhead walls had been subtly angled, so that the gap could only be seen from the front of the corridor.
And no one comes through this corridor in that direction, the Klingon thought as he eased his body through the narrow opening. Sometimes he wondered if his contacts had selected him for his diminutive size for his race.
On the other side, the darkness was complete. The Klingon reached into his pocket and pressed a small device, which responded with a compliant beep. Suddenly, a door into a brightly illuminated room opened vertically, less than a meter from him. He stared into the blinding light as his eyes adjusted.
"Kem'Jokath, it's wonderful to see you again. Please, come in!" the familiar voice registered immediately, and the warrior stepped in. The human, who had only identified himself as Steven, extended his hand. Dressed in a black bodysuit, his presence in this facility had perplexed the Klingon on his first visit. He was notable in no other way to Kem'Jokath, just another Starfleet human who believed in his superiority of morality throughout the galaxy. He looked at the hand, and looked back at Steven.
"I have no need for your... niceties. You know why I am here."
Steven's smile disappeared. "Very well. Step onto the pad, please," He gestured towards a small transporter pad in the corner. "They're expecting you."
Kem'Jokath said nothing, stepping onto the pad and turning around. Steven stepped to the console. "Until next time," he said as he began the transport sequence. Kem'Jokath was almost certain he saw a smile creep across his face before his vision faded into a stream of phased matter.
His vision cleared as he rematerialized in a room even darker than the corridor that had brought him to his contact. He had been here before, as well, when he was given his assignment. He could sense that he was seated in a padded chair, in the center of a vast space, but his eyes told him nothing.
The holographic monoliths appeared silently. Appearing as hollow cubes outlined in brilliant white light, the silhouette of a humanoid appeared in each of the three, along with the words "AUDIO ONLY" in Klingonese. They surrounded Kem'Jokath in a semicircle, their light illuminating the small podium on which he and his chair had materialized. He knew, from experience, that a forcefield was restraining him in his position, and he would not move or leave until his mysterious hosts willed it. An eternity seemed to have passed before the leftmost monolith illuminated brighter than the other two, and the keeper of its avatar spoke, his voice heavily distorted.
"You return to us prematurely. I trust you were successful, Klingon?"
Kem'Jokath did not move. "I have the information you requested. The Cardassians were unaware of my presence on the transport."
The third monolith lit up and spoke, its voice distorted as well, but clearly more shrill than the first – more feminine. "Excellent! Your service will not go without notice."
The first spoke again. "Let us not be premature. The transport sent the message across the subspace net. Starfleet Command no doubt already has the distress signal."
The middle monolith illuminated, forcing the other two to darken. "Irrelevant," the deep voice boomed, "Starfleet knows nothing of what's to come. Let them search for their vessel. Give us the data rods."
Kem'Jokath blinked as the force field surrounding him vanished in a brief green flash. He reached into his pocket, and removed a small box. Opening it, he removed three small, translucent orange data rods, the crystalline optical data pathway glistening within them in the ethereal light of the monoliths. He held out his hand and the rods dematerialized, transported by his hosts.
"Excellent. We're finished with you for now, Jokath. You may go. We may need your services again. Please remain in Sector 001. You will be contacted regarding payment. Thank you."
Kem'Jokath had no time to respond before he rematerialized in his shuttle, in high orbit above Mars. He shook his head, then sat down in the command chair. He allowed himself a moment of reflection on another victory before he set a course for Earth.
Chapter Three
Ensign Gilliam stepped through the doors to the science lab, the doors opening and closing with a pneumatic hiss. She barely noticed them anymore. Commander Mueller stood, leaning against one of the EPS conduit bulkheads, looking over Ensign Bo Koren, an Andorian. His antennae pointed directly at the console in concentration. Mueller turned his head and nodded a greeting.
"Gilliam. Right on time. We're just pulling up the data file. I need you at spectral analysis." He turned his head back to the console. Mueller had a reputation for intense focus while at work.
Gilliam crossed the small, computer-packed room and sat at a large, multipanel console. In the center, a spectral analysis window sat idle, waiting for data to be loaded. Her communications badge transmitted her ID codes to the computer, and she touched the verification panel briefly to log in. The panels came to life, glowing with orange and blue. "Ready, Commander."
Mueller stood and walked to the center of the room, and one of Koren's antennae followed him. He clasped his hand behind his back. I'd heard he liked to play Captain, Gilliam thought, but I'd never seen it. Indeed, Mueller was now pacing from console to console briskly across his little bridge. After glancing at each of the computers he stopped, placing a hand on the back of Gilliam's chair.
"All right. Koren, pull it up on the main audio channel. Send it to Gilliam's console, as well, would you?"
"Aye sir. Playback starting. Gloria, you should have it now."
The speakers in the small room crackled to life as deep subspace static filled the chamber. Suddenly, out of the white noise, a voice emerged, filled with distortion, but audible.
"This is Cap ... of the Feder ... onde ... eet Command. We have encounte...has critically damaged our vessel …. ship abandoned. We are reques...We are request...sistance from anyone in range...ates are eight seven five one..." The transmission faded into static.
Mueller walked to the center of the lab and turned facing both Ensigns. "That's all we have. We need to clean it up and provide initial analysis before forwarding to Admiral Necheyev at 0800." The commander sat at a stool at the central analysis table, facing outward. "This was picked up by the Cardassian Freighter Grisnok II eight days ago in sector 254. It was detected plane-phased to their course, so they believe it came from above the Galactic equator. Initial Analysis. Let's go." He looked expectantly at Gilliam.
Gilliam turned to her computer and began to press the controls. In a matter of seconds, a spectrum display of the distress signal appeared on her monitor. The waterfall plot visualized patterns across the subspace spectrum. Immediately, she noticed the signal peaks in the voice had a far higher amplitude than they should. "I'm seeing an interferometric signal here, Commander."
"Interferometric?"
"Yes sir. It almost looks like two transmitters were used simultaneously. The transmission peaks amplified each other. With the amount of noise and distortion, we shouldn't be seeing this amplitude."
Command Mueller frowned. "Starfleet ships don't use bitransmitter subspace antennas."
Koren turned from his console. "It was a distress signal. Maybe they weren't using normal transmitters."
Mueller turned to him. "Can you generate an algorithm that reverses an interferometric signature?"
"Yes sir, but with a degree of accuracy that's correlated to the transmitter separation. Without knowing their exact configuration we can't get the original signal."
Gilliam stood up from her chair and turned to the two men. "We can restrict it to the size of an average Federation starship, say 300 meters. Then we can generate solutions for separations at one meter resolution, and compare those to known transmitter configurations. It should be able to ID the transmitter signatures, and from there we can separate the original message."
Mueller cocked his head, nodding, as Koren looked at him. "Sounds good. Koren, generate the algorithm. Run the computer on loops for one to three hundred meter separation."
"Aye sir." Koren tapped his console feverishly, then turned. "Simulations in progress. Should only take a second."
The computer beeped and chirped in compliance as it attempted to separate merged signal into its components. With the two original data streams identified, the subspace noise could be removed more easily. The computer chirped a final time before responding. "Analysis complete. Probable source separation is seven point two five meters with an accuracy of 98.3 percent."
Mueller clapped his hands and stood. "Bingo! Great job! Gilliam, get one of the signals on your spec. Koren, start trying to remove the noise." He strode towards Gilliam's chair, leaning over her console. "Can you identify the transmitter types?"
Gilliam tapped a few controls on her console. To her surprise, the method she had suggested worked perfectly. The computer immediately displayed the transmitter configuration on another monitor. She turned to Mueller. "They're the main subspace antennae from two Type 9 Shuttlecraft, sir. Looks like a synchronized but separate transmission from both shuttles."
Mueller stood, scratching his chin, as Gilliam continued to work. "So something damaged the ship so badly they lost all subspace radio capability. They had to send their transmission through the shuttles. Any luck getting rid of the noise, Koren?"
Koren shook his head without looking away from his console. "No, sir. There's no trace of signal in the noise that I can find! I mean, I've seen signals that were too deeply buried for me to retrieve before, but sir – I've never seen anything like this. It's as if portions of the message have been deleted."
Mueller frowned, again. Gilliam was beginning to sense he had far more interest in this message than he claimed. It was already 0715, and the message should've been relayed the second it arrived. Trying to get out of this posting, she thought. I can't blame him. She turned to the Commander. "He's right, sir. I'm showing normal subspace background noise in all dropped sections, no trace of a transmitter signature. I've never seen noise like this."
Commander Mueller stepped to the middle of the room and started pacing again. He suddenly stopped, and stared at the wall. "Gilliam. Remove all voice sections of the signal and isolate the noise only. Quantize the data and run every pattern identification sequence you can think of."
Gilliam tapped her console in compliance. "Sequence started. About five minutes," She turned to Mueller. "What do you think, sir?"
Mueller glanced at her momentarily, as if evaluating her, before looking back at the spectrum display. "I think signals don't just disappear, and it sounds like there's critical information missing from the signal we received. Run the analysis. Koren, start packaging this data onto two PADDs, then contact Starfleet Command and get me the adjutant to Admiral Nechayev."
Koren's antennae perked up at the name, but complied without commenting. "Yes sir!"
Gilliam continued to work at her console. It seemed the commander was onto something. She could see on the waterfall plot of the isolated noise what appeared to be a bicyclic pulsar signature, but its characteristic rhythm – click, click-click, click, click-click – seemed broken in places, but she couldn't quantize it visually. The computer continued to beep as it tackled its latest calculatory challenge. Suddenly, the computer stopped beeping and spoke. "Analysis complete."
Mueller and Koren looked at Gilliam silently. She met each of there gazes before spinning in her chair. She tapped a few controls and looked at her console. Her jaw dropped. "Commander, I... That is..." She cleared her throat and turned back to the other officers. "The noise. It's not just patterned, it's replicated." She looked directly at Commander Mueller. "Portions of this message have been deliberately removed, sir. It's the only possible explanation."
Commander Mueller frowned, staring at Gilliam for a long time before he spoke. "Outstanding work, Ensign." He turned to Koren decisively. "Contact Nechayev again, this time on a priority channel."
Chapter Four
Commander Max Wrightwell stood outside the door to Fleet Admiral Alynna Nechayev's office in Starfleet headquarters at 0759, as he did almost every morning. It was a rare day indeed that the Admiral had nothing waiting for her when she arrived for duty. As the highest-ranking Starfleet officer, second only to the President of the Federation, Nechayev commanded every starship in the fleet. Though the responsibilities were heavy, Wrightwell knew that the Admiral had been enjoying her job much more since the Treaty of Bajor was signed. With the fleet finally rebuilt, Starfleet was once again focused on exploration and diplomacy. He thought Nechayev had never seemed so invigorated.
Nechayev stepped off the turbolift and smiled at Wrightwell as she walked down the corridor. Her bodyguard stopped at the center of the corridor, his post for as long as the Admiral was at her office, a hand phaser on his belt.
"Good morning, as always, Commander Wrightwell."
"Good Morning, Admiral, how are you today?"
Nechayev smiled. "I'll be better the day that everything was running so smoothly you met me at your desk, Commander, but that's too much to hope for."
Wrightwell chuckled. "Today at least, Admiral."
"What do we have?" Nechayev asked as she stepped into the spacious reception hall of the Fleet Admiral's office. The far wall was dominated by a curved, two story window panel, looking out across the Academy parade grounds and beyond, to the Pacific Ocean. Plants dominated every corner and sill, providing a counterpoint to the displays showing fleet movements and a feed of the Federation News Service. FNS was running a piece on the plight of the Cardassian people in the aftermath of the war.
Wrightwell leafed through a stack of PADDs on his desk. "Nothing too serious, but we do have a secure communication on standby for you right now, ma'am. Commander Mueller at Sutro Relay Station on a priority channel." He handed the Admiral her coffee, a staple of her morning. She took a sip, closing her eyes and savoring what would no doubt be the last calm moment of her day.
"Very well, Commander, I'll take it in my office please. And tell the Science Council I'll be able to see them at 0930 as planned."
"Yes Ma'am." Wrightwell returned to his console and began punching the necessary commands to forward the communication to the Admiral's office.
Necheyev stepped into her spacious office, with windows every bit as grand as those in her reception area. In front of the windows, a sweeping, gloss black desk, the staple of nearly every command ready room in Starfleet, dominated the room, with four chairs in front of it, and a single PADD on top. She had once kept a personal computer console, but the travel demands of her position made it cumbersome and unnecessary. Her cat, Nomad, sat perched as always, high above the room atop the Admiral's bookshelves. He glared at her blankly as she sat at her desk and took a sip of coffee, before tapping a few controls on her desk. Silently, a large monitor slid from the floor directly behind her desk, and Nechayev turned to face it just as Commander Mueller appeared on it.
"Commander, I'm sorry to keep you waiting," Nechayev said through a forced smile. "It's always very busy around here, as I'm sure you can understand. What can I do for you?"
Commander Mueller managed a weak smile. "Admiral, I have some disturbing information. We received a distress signal early this morning."
Nechayev's smile disappeared. "Why wasn't this forwarded to Fleet Operations?"
"There's something else, ma'am. The signal was transmitted using two shuttlecraft in synchronization. We had some trouble separating the signals, but we're pretty sure we've cleaned it up as much as we can." Mueller Paused.
Nechayev was growing impatient with Mueller's theatrics. "And, Commander?"
"And, we can't get any signal out of the noise. Nothing. Statistical analysis shows that portions of the signal had been deliberately removed."
Nechayev was frowning now. "Thank you, Commander. You were right not to send this through Ops. Send my office all the data you have on this message and we'll handle it from here."
Mueller visibly relaxed. His penchant for the dramatic rarely extended into matters of serious responsibility. "Yes ma'am, you'll have them in less than a minute. Mueller out."
The monitor switched to s Starfleet insignia before turning black and rolling away beneath the floor. Nechayev's computer console beeped, and she picked up her PADD, cycling through the data being forwarded from the relay station. Mueller was a good officer, she reflected, but he would likely never leave the bridge of the USS Desk. This time, however, his work piqued Nechayev's interest.
As she read through the data, her sense of concern mounted. Her coffee grew cold and stale before she finally set down the PADD, staring out her window for a long moment. She tapped her desk panel again.
"Commander Wrightwell."
There was a pause before he responded. "Yes Admiral,"
"Cancel my appointment with the Federation Science Council. And..." She paused again, sighing at the implications of her order. The Science Council would just have to be disappointed twice. "Get me a direct subspace link with the Enterprise as soon as possible."
Commander Wrightwell could be heard straightening up in his seat on the communications channel. The Fleet Admiral of Starfleet didn't request a direct link to the flagship for just any minor issue. "Right away, ma'am. I'll contact you when the comlink has been established. Wrightwell out."
Nechayev turned and looked out onto the ocean. Her frown deepened as she gazed out to the horizon. Nomad watched her for a while, and then fell asleep.
Chapter Five
The Sovereign-class USS Enterprise-E cruised through space silently, her hull's Aztec-like patterns of windows, escape pods, sensor arrays and other accouterments of space travel illuminated only by her own onboard lighting. Through the windows of her upper decks, crew members could be seen living, working, playing, and eating. The ship was a veritable spacefaring city, and at her uppermost deck, Captain Jean-Luc Picard stood staring out the windows of his spacious ready room on the aft section. The stars crept by more slowly than they usually would at warp 9, and Picard reflected on the long journey through the Ryceene expanse to the cluster of the same name.
A dense association of younger stars, the Ryceene Cluster had never been charted by a manned Federation vessel. Evidence was mounting of numerous spacefaring civilizations within the cluster, but all communications attempts had failed. The Enterprise, after many years of combat duty against the Borg and the Dominion, was finally on a mission of exploration and Picard felt a reinvigorated sense of purpose. He walked back to his desk, where his tea was just beginning to cool, and sat down. He took a sip of Earl Grey.
"Computer," he said to the empty room, and the device beeped in acknowledgement. "Begin Captain's log." Another series of beeps. Picard took a long sip from his tea.
"Captain's log, Stardate: 58243.4. The Enterprise is maintaining its long cruise towards the Ryceene Cluster. After 53 days of traversing empty space, the crew is looking forward to our arrival at the first star system in the cluster in two weeks. I must admit I share their enthusiasm, though as with any potential first contact, a measure of restraint is in order.
"In the meantime, the crew has been performing numerous performance drills. With so many new officers replacing those lost – or promoted by their actions – in the Dominion War, a deep-space training exercise is exactly what this crew needed. With any luck, we'll be functioning at top efficiency when we arrive at the cluster. End log." The computer beeped again, and Picard finished his tea.
Elsewhere on the ship, Commander Martin Madden walked through the corridors of Deck 16, carrying a PADD. Though he had served aboard the Enterprise less than a year, he had quickly come to learn the reason for the ship's reputation. In his first two months, he had participated in three first contact events, helped oversee peace negotiations in four sectors, and commanded over one hundred away missions. When he first came on board after the Romulan incident, he thought Captain William Riker left big shoes to fill. It had turned out to be accurate, but Madden had adjusted well, and he quickly fell into a new rhythm as the Enterprise's executive officer.
Stepping into main engineering, Madden surveyed the hubbub of activity. On all three decks of the cavernous chamber, workers scurried from consoles to sensors to conduits, carrying tools and performing analyses. The warp core, the most powerful in Starfleet, churned happily in the center of the room, oblivious to its keepers. On the second level, Lieutenant Commander Geordi LaForge, the ship's chief engineer, looked over some reports as ensigns reported for the new duty shift. As LaForge skimmed the maintenance reports he called out orders for the day.
"Okay, Ramirez, Barclay, T'Palak. I want you guys on the lateral sensor arrays again. Keep trying to squeeze every bit of resolution out of them. I want to start reconfiguring the starboard arrays for a short-range scan protocol, as well, for when we reach the Ryceene Cluster. Kelley, Jordan, and Kepling, I want you working EPS maintenance. Everybody else, focus on maintaining warp core stability. We've got a long way to go before we can shut these engines down. Okay, let's go!"
LaForge turned, walking towards the lift, glancing across the warp core as he walked. Though he no longer wore a VISOR, his ocular implants afforded him access to a range of analytic spectra that other humanoids couldn't see. He stepped onto the lift and as he moved to the lower deck, saw Commander Madden.
Madden turned and walked towards him, smiling and extending a hand. "Geordi, how are you this morning?"
LaForge shook his hand. "Great, Commander. Yourself?"
"Not too bad. How are we running today?"
"Well, see for yourself," LaForge responded, handing Madden a PADD. "Engines are holding steady at 98.1 percent efficiency, but we're hoping to get that higher before we reach the cluster. I think we'll be able to give you warp 9.1 before tomorrow."
"And the sensors?"
LaForge laughed. "The new new LaForge sensor array will be online in the next few days, sir. We're turning the starboard arrays into a macrophase-synchronized tetryon array now, but other than that they're ready."
Madden pressed a few controls on the PADD, reviewing its contents, then handed it back to LaForge. "Looks good. I'll inform the Captain that we can accelerate during night watch." He turned to leave, before stopping and glancing back. "Speaking of night watch – poker tonight?"
LaForge whistled. "Feel like losing again?"
Madden grinned. "My quarters, 1900. Bring a bottle." He stepped through the doors of main engineering and headed towards the turbolift.
On the bridge, Lieutenant Commander B'Ellana Paris stood at the Tactical station, monitoring the navigational sensors as the Enterprise sped towards the Ryceene Cluster. She had only taken the assignment in the few days before the ship left Deep Space Nine, after a special recommendation by Admiral Janeway. It was her first deep-space assignment since the Voyager returned to Earth, what seemed to Paris to be ages ago. She wasn't eager to leave her daughter motherless for nine months; however, the opportunity to regain her real Starfleet commission was temptation that proved impossible to resist. Her first two months of duty had been uneventful, with no real opporotunity to excel at her new station. The Enterprise was a powerful ship, but it was peacetime; and crime aboard ship was virtually nonexistant this far from Starbases or Planets. B'Ellana missed the freedom that the Chief Engineer position offered her aboard Voyager, but the warp core on her current ship was LaForge's own, and no one would change that anytime soon. The sensors flashed idly at her.
She was startled from her reminiscent daydream as the doors to the Captain's ready room opened with a hiss. Paris straightened up immediately. "Captain on the bridge!"
Picard dismissed her formality with a wave as he walked towards the command chair. "At ease," he said as he sat down. He tapped a few controls on the command consoles next to his chair. "Tactical, sensor summary report." Picard turned towards Paris, his face expressionless.
"Nothing significant to report, sir. Vacuum energy density remains unchanged. We've detected no new details in the cluster to speak of. There's a class 5 comet at the far end of sensor range, at bearing 097 mark 045."
Picard nodded and turned back to the main viewer as other bridge personnel returned to their duties. Over her tour aboard, Paris had noticed that she sometimes seemed to enjoy simply sitting on the bridge, appreciating her command and reflecting on her mission. Paris watched him for a long moment before turning to her work as the turbolift doors opened and Commander Madden stepped onto the bridge. The Commander placed one foot on Picard's command deck, leaning against one of the consoles, a PADD in hand.
Picard took the device and glanced at it. "Any word on the warp core?"
"Geordi says warp 9.1 sometime this evening."
The Captain nodded, scrolling down the list. "This all looks outstanding, Commander. How are preparations coming along for the second series of tactical dril-..."
Picard was cut off by a persistent beeping emanating from the Tactical console. The Captain and First Officer turned around to face Paris as she tapped at her console. "We're receiving a subspace transmission from Starfleet Command, Captain," she tapped at a few more screens, then looked at Captain Picard. "Fleet Admiral Nechayev on priority channel one, sir."
Picard immediately frowned, then nodded. "In my ready room," the Captain ordered, standing up and striding across the bridge, straightening the gig line of his uniform as he walked. "You have the bridge, Number One."