Spider in the Web
A StarTrek Novel
Written by:
ChrisTR
Disclaimer : Certainly, you should by now know what's supposed to stand here! If Paramount wants to sue me, off they go, but I doubt that they'd gain very much from doing so. Anyway, yes the universe belongs to Paramount…Hail to the chief baby!
But, this story belongs to me, as do some characters and some technical equipment..well, yeah.
Archiving, downloading, even printing is no problem as long as ya e-mail me, and keep the name and that bloody disclaimer attached...oh yeah. My notes too.
Background : Yatta Yatta...Let's make something clear…if you haven't read the previous ones, don't even try this story. But, probably, you will. So, here's a summary:
Voyager is back home! But they were pretty surprised when Dominion war was still going on. When Paris and Tuvok were captured on a mission, they were even more surprised. But their surprise was stretched to its limit when they were rescued from a Cardassian Prison by a joint Federation/Romulan task force. Surprise however, was no longer adequate when they learned that now there was an alliance between the Rommies and the Feds, and they were forced to resort to astonishment.
Not that much surprising however will it be, when I say that helm-boy and our favourite chief engineer have found out that they are...quite fond of each other, after all.
Author's Note :Ha! Did you see? There was some P/T in the last one, AFTER ALL! :) So, I'm trying to keep that up now, but perhaps there will be more concentrated efforts on the story. For a change. Or perhaps not. Because if there were, I'd have to look for another site to even post it. Ts, ts...
Feedback will be appreciated, enshrined, and carefully read! Oh yeah, and answered by the way. And even personnally answered! Feel free to write. You liked it? You hated it? You survived it (severely wounded) ? Tell me about it! Everything, from praise to scorn, goes to: zEnStOlCh@hotmail.com
.
Dedicated to Robert Mason, Pilot, Bravo Company, 229th Assault Helicopter Battalion, 1st US Cavalry Division (Airmobile) in Vietnam, from August 1965 to July 1966.
I recommend his book, ChickenHawk, where he recalls his time in Nam, to everyone. It's not a book for weak stomachs, but it's one bloody, painfully honest and courageous book, and its powerful message will stay in the memory, long after the last page has been turned.
PS : In the prequel to this thing, I seem to have forgotten to thank a certain Matthew Edwards (or so), for introducing me to Section 31, of which I had no clue up to that point, and for giving me feedback, which is, hardly need to tell you, vitally important, for any author. If I can be descirbed as such. So, in his own words, Cheers !
There is a greater darkness than the darkness we fight. It is the darkness of the soul, that has lost its way. The war we fight is against powers or principalities, but also against chaos and dispair.
Greater than the death of flesh, is the death of hope. The death of dreams. It is a peril we can never surrender. The future is all around us; waiting, in moments of transition, to be reborn, in moments of revelation. No one knows the shape of that future, or where it will take us. We know only, that it is always born in pain.
Author's Note (Prolonged) :
You should have noticed by now : This is turning out to be more than just another Paris/Torres story.
Infact, Tom Paris and B'Elanna Torres have ceased to be the principal characters in this tale. From now on, they will have a more subdued part in this, if any. For some time now I have grown increasingly unsatisfied with those two. And anyway, there are far too many characters in the series already, and I have complicated things further, by introducing my own. But I felt that it was necessary. I have been an eager fan of the Star Trek series throughout the years, and I will continue to be one, I deem, for a long time.
But one thing I dislike about it : there is no magic. In the 24th century, God doesn't seem to exist anymore.
Apart perhaps from Jim Kirk, there are no legends left, a deplorable fact, in my opinion. In short, to me Star Trek has lost some of its appeal, and I am trying to bring it back, in my own story. The Romulans have been ignored for the biggest part of the series' history. In a way that pleases me, because it allows me to create my 'own' Romulans. I can give them a culture, I can create their myths and legends, their religions and cults. Perhaps I succeed in giving back a part of the magic that Star Trek once had. Perhaps not. But it's worth a try.
What I will now say will shock and anger some, but to me ST Voyager is a disappointment. This may be because I have yet to see the latest episodes, but as of now, I don't watch it anymore. The best of all the series was, without the shadow of a doubt The Next Generation. Just think of the many new races and cultures we've encountered there; Ferengi, Cardassians, Borg. There were highly spiritual episodes such as the one where they trace a genetical puzzle back to its origins to find out that all the principal races are descendant from one 'mother'-race. TNG had a message to transmit. Voyager ?
Voyager is full of races that are no longer wodnerous but only bizarre, sometimes even righteous stupid. Just think of these ridiculous TacTac or how they were called. As for Neelix, he's a clown, and little more. For 4 years now, there were opportunities to get nearer to the Talaxian history and culture, but naught was down. Characters in Voyager are for the greatest part flat and unrealistic, one-sided, and generally the whole Voyager universe is black-and-white. Good and evil. Voyager are the good guys. The rest are bad guys. Nothing in between.
Janeway as allmighty mother-figure is tiresome, and even everyone's favourite, Tom Paris is, of late, simply getting on my nerves.
Now, I don't claim that my own characters are better, that is not for me to decide, but at least, over the time, I did see an opportunity to explain one particular race in detail, even to recreate it, if you want, and I intend to grasp it.
'Sacrifice of Angels' was originally intended to be a sappy, simple, flat romance of perhaps 30 pages, if that (I, of all, am more amazed at what it gradually has become than you). Now I know all of you who have read this far did so because they expected precisely that. But nevertheless, I hope that the story herein told was grasping enough for you to be curious on how it will all end.
This story is posted on a P/T site.
I know.
But I hope Wanda will post this anyway, this and also the remaining parts of 'Midnight on the Firing line'.
It may not be Parris/Torres anymore. But it is Star Trek, and as such it should be worth reading.
Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
-Thomas Gray, Epitaph
___________
Three days after the events in "Price of the Admiralty"
______________
Prologue
Paris, Europe
Earth
On Earth, the assassin was called Carl Cole.
Whistling merrily to himself, he made his way through Luvonparc. When he passed the ice-skating ring, he heard the happy laughter and giggling of children, and huddled himself deeper in his warm coat. It was winter, icy-cold, and he drew his green scarf closer, not so much as to cover his face, but to keep the frosty wind away.
Carl Cole had no reason to hide. On Earth, he was as unknown and inconspicuous as any other citizen, who had come here, and worked half-days at a flower shop.
Beneath his boots, the frozen snow cracked. Most people had gathered at the skating ring or the Snack-shop. But there were some two or three tracks, of daring and intrepid people, who had defied the almost hip-high snow, and taken the way Cole was now walking. Some metres away, a couple of children were lying in the snow, moving their arms up and down, to draw angels in the snow.
If he had really been Carl Cole, the cold would have driven him home, very quickly. But as assassin, he could afford such a weakness.
In his usual morning newspapers, he had found the expected message, under "Lost-Found" :
« Searching :Fled wolfhound, answers to the name LITA. 2yo, Reward »
The message in itself wasn't extraordinary, but it contained the keywords he needed.
Before long, he came to an old, shabby-looking hut, made entirely of wood.
Carl Cole would have walked by, without looking at it.
But the assassin approached the east-ward wall of the house, and knelt before it. He lifted up a big stone, and from underneath it took a small bit of paper. It looked very old, and torn. One half missed, and it seemed that it had contained a major part of the message.
Now, only 2 lines were left :
36-4
A7-22-7-K1H
He re-read the message twice, then threw the bit of paper in a waste container.
Slowly, as if continuing his little walk, he approached the computerized citymap. First, he just walked by. Then he halted, and turned, as if he had forgotten something. For three seconds, he looked at nothing in particular, then he touched a number of glyphs on the display. It now showed a scheme of the monorail stations in Paris.
One hour later, the assassin arrived at the 'Gare du midi', and left his monorail compartment. He crossed the entrance lobby, only stopping once, to give Carl the opportunity to admire the architectural design of the building, then he approached a row of lockers.
He found locker 36-4, and entered the access code.
A7-22-7-K1H
The display showed him that he had to pay a fee of 45 credits. He entered his ID card, and fed the computer. The display changed, to show him a flashing, green OPEN.
From inside the locker, he took a small isolinear chip, and put it in a pocket inside his coat, and left the lobby. The assassin could have afforded a taxi, but Carl Cole waited for the next monorail.
It was already dark when he finally arrived at his home.
In his appartment, he took the chip and inserted it into his computer. He switched it on, and the machine began working.
A dialog-box appeard on his screen, with a question mark and a blinking cursor in it. He entered the name of the lost dog, Lita, and checked the orthography, before he pressed the CONFIRM glyph. A mistake would have led to the destruction of the chip and the data it contained. Such a mistake would have been inexcusable, and he would not get a second chance.
His computer accepted. The program on the chip was activated, and the computer began foraging all the planet's newspaper of this particular day. The majority was useless. Of the rest, pages and articles were searched for particular keywords. Another part of the program took these words, and re-grouped them. When the action was finished, the computer beeped. On its display there was a seemingly random succession of words. To everybody else, it would have been nothing but gibberish.
The assassin read it. The first word was made of 5 characters, so he passed the next four words, and read the fifth. That one had 7 characters, so he passed the next six words, etc. Slowly, he constructed the real message. When he had read it, he activated the last part of the program. The screen went black; the chip was formatted, and rendered useless. After taking it out of the machine, the assassin threw it away.
Two months.
He would have to wait for at least another two months.
And then Carl Cole would die.
A StarTrek Novel
Written by:
ChrisTR
Disclaimer : Certainly, you should by now know what's supposed to stand here! If Paramount wants to sue me, off they go, but I doubt that they'd gain very much from doing so. Anyway, yes the universe belongs to Paramount…Hail to the chief baby!
But, this story belongs to me, as do some characters and some technical equipment..well, yeah.
Archiving, downloading, even printing is no problem as long as ya e-mail me, and keep the name and that bloody disclaimer attached...oh yeah. My notes too.
Background : Yatta Yatta...Let's make something clear…if you haven't read the previous ones, don't even try this story. But, probably, you will. So, here's a summary:
Voyager is back home! But they were pretty surprised when Dominion war was still going on. When Paris and Tuvok were captured on a mission, they were even more surprised. But their surprise was stretched to its limit when they were rescued from a Cardassian Prison by a joint Federation/Romulan task force. Surprise however, was no longer adequate when they learned that now there was an alliance between the Rommies and the Feds, and they were forced to resort to astonishment.
Not that much surprising however will it be, when I say that helm-boy and our favourite chief engineer have found out that they are...quite fond of each other, after all.
Author's Note :Ha! Did you see? There was some P/T in the last one, AFTER ALL! :) So, I'm trying to keep that up now, but perhaps there will be more concentrated efforts on the story. For a change. Or perhaps not. Because if there were, I'd have to look for another site to even post it. Ts, ts...
Feedback will be appreciated, enshrined, and carefully read! Oh yeah, and answered by the way. And even personnally answered! Feel free to write. You liked it? You hated it? You survived it (severely wounded) ? Tell me about it! Everything, from praise to scorn, goes to: zEnStOlCh@hotmail.com
.
Dedicated to Robert Mason, Pilot, Bravo Company, 229th Assault Helicopter Battalion, 1st US Cavalry Division (Airmobile) in Vietnam, from August 1965 to July 1966.
I recommend his book, ChickenHawk, where he recalls his time in Nam, to everyone. It's not a book for weak stomachs, but it's one bloody, painfully honest and courageous book, and its powerful message will stay in the memory, long after the last page has been turned.
PS : In the prequel to this thing, I seem to have forgotten to thank a certain Matthew Edwards (or so), for introducing me to Section 31, of which I had no clue up to that point, and for giving me feedback, which is, hardly need to tell you, vitally important, for any author. If I can be descirbed as such. So, in his own words, Cheers !
There is a greater darkness than the darkness we fight. It is the darkness of the soul, that has lost its way. The war we fight is against powers or principalities, but also against chaos and dispair.
Greater than the death of flesh, is the death of hope. The death of dreams. It is a peril we can never surrender. The future is all around us; waiting, in moments of transition, to be reborn, in moments of revelation. No one knows the shape of that future, or where it will take us. We know only, that it is always born in pain.
Author's Note (Prolonged) :
You should have noticed by now : This is turning out to be more than just another Paris/Torres story.
Infact, Tom Paris and B'Elanna Torres have ceased to be the principal characters in this tale. From now on, they will have a more subdued part in this, if any. For some time now I have grown increasingly unsatisfied with those two. And anyway, there are far too many characters in the series already, and I have complicated things further, by introducing my own. But I felt that it was necessary. I have been an eager fan of the Star Trek series throughout the years, and I will continue to be one, I deem, for a long time.
But one thing I dislike about it : there is no magic. In the 24th century, God doesn't seem to exist anymore.
Apart perhaps from Jim Kirk, there are no legends left, a deplorable fact, in my opinion. In short, to me Star Trek has lost some of its appeal, and I am trying to bring it back, in my own story. The Romulans have been ignored for the biggest part of the series' history. In a way that pleases me, because it allows me to create my 'own' Romulans. I can give them a culture, I can create their myths and legends, their religions and cults. Perhaps I succeed in giving back a part of the magic that Star Trek once had. Perhaps not. But it's worth a try.
What I will now say will shock and anger some, but to me ST Voyager is a disappointment. This may be because I have yet to see the latest episodes, but as of now, I don't watch it anymore. The best of all the series was, without the shadow of a doubt The Next Generation. Just think of the many new races and cultures we've encountered there; Ferengi, Cardassians, Borg. There were highly spiritual episodes such as the one where they trace a genetical puzzle back to its origins to find out that all the principal races are descendant from one 'mother'-race. TNG had a message to transmit. Voyager ?
Voyager is full of races that are no longer wodnerous but only bizarre, sometimes even righteous stupid. Just think of these ridiculous TacTac or how they were called. As for Neelix, he's a clown, and little more. For 4 years now, there were opportunities to get nearer to the Talaxian history and culture, but naught was down. Characters in Voyager are for the greatest part flat and unrealistic, one-sided, and generally the whole Voyager universe is black-and-white. Good and evil. Voyager are the good guys. The rest are bad guys. Nothing in between.
Janeway as allmighty mother-figure is tiresome, and even everyone's favourite, Tom Paris is, of late, simply getting on my nerves.
Now, I don't claim that my own characters are better, that is not for me to decide, but at least, over the time, I did see an opportunity to explain one particular race in detail, even to recreate it, if you want, and I intend to grasp it.
'Sacrifice of Angels' was originally intended to be a sappy, simple, flat romance of perhaps 30 pages, if that (I, of all, am more amazed at what it gradually has become than you). Now I know all of you who have read this far did so because they expected precisely that. But nevertheless, I hope that the story herein told was grasping enough for you to be curious on how it will all end.
This story is posted on a P/T site.
I know.
But I hope Wanda will post this anyway, this and also the remaining parts of 'Midnight on the Firing line'.
It may not be Parris/Torres anymore. But it is Star Trek, and as such it should be worth reading.
Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
-Thomas Gray, Epitaph
___________
Three days after the events in "Price of the Admiralty"
______________
Prologue
Paris, Europe
Earth
On Earth, the assassin was called Carl Cole.
Whistling merrily to himself, he made his way through Luvonparc. When he passed the ice-skating ring, he heard the happy laughter and giggling of children, and huddled himself deeper in his warm coat. It was winter, icy-cold, and he drew his green scarf closer, not so much as to cover his face, but to keep the frosty wind away.
Carl Cole had no reason to hide. On Earth, he was as unknown and inconspicuous as any other citizen, who had come here, and worked half-days at a flower shop.
Beneath his boots, the frozen snow cracked. Most people had gathered at the skating ring or the Snack-shop. But there were some two or three tracks, of daring and intrepid people, who had defied the almost hip-high snow, and taken the way Cole was now walking. Some metres away, a couple of children were lying in the snow, moving their arms up and down, to draw angels in the snow.
If he had really been Carl Cole, the cold would have driven him home, very quickly. But as assassin, he could afford such a weakness.
In his usual morning newspapers, he had found the expected message, under "Lost-Found" :
« Searching :Fled wolfhound, answers to the name LITA. 2yo, Reward »
The message in itself wasn't extraordinary, but it contained the keywords he needed.
Before long, he came to an old, shabby-looking hut, made entirely of wood.
Carl Cole would have walked by, without looking at it.
But the assassin approached the east-ward wall of the house, and knelt before it. He lifted up a big stone, and from underneath it took a small bit of paper. It looked very old, and torn. One half missed, and it seemed that it had contained a major part of the message.
Now, only 2 lines were left :
36-4
A7-22-7-K1H
He re-read the message twice, then threw the bit of paper in a waste container.
Slowly, as if continuing his little walk, he approached the computerized citymap. First, he just walked by. Then he halted, and turned, as if he had forgotten something. For three seconds, he looked at nothing in particular, then he touched a number of glyphs on the display. It now showed a scheme of the monorail stations in Paris.
One hour later, the assassin arrived at the 'Gare du midi', and left his monorail compartment. He crossed the entrance lobby, only stopping once, to give Carl the opportunity to admire the architectural design of the building, then he approached a row of lockers.
He found locker 36-4, and entered the access code.
A7-22-7-K1H
The display showed him that he had to pay a fee of 45 credits. He entered his ID card, and fed the computer. The display changed, to show him a flashing, green OPEN.
From inside the locker, he took a small isolinear chip, and put it in a pocket inside his coat, and left the lobby. The assassin could have afforded a taxi, but Carl Cole waited for the next monorail.
It was already dark when he finally arrived at his home.
In his appartment, he took the chip and inserted it into his computer. He switched it on, and the machine began working.
A dialog-box appeard on his screen, with a question mark and a blinking cursor in it. He entered the name of the lost dog, Lita, and checked the orthography, before he pressed the CONFIRM glyph. A mistake would have led to the destruction of the chip and the data it contained. Such a mistake would have been inexcusable, and he would not get a second chance.
His computer accepted. The program on the chip was activated, and the computer began foraging all the planet's newspaper of this particular day. The majority was useless. Of the rest, pages and articles were searched for particular keywords. Another part of the program took these words, and re-grouped them. When the action was finished, the computer beeped. On its display there was a seemingly random succession of words. To everybody else, it would have been nothing but gibberish.
The assassin read it. The first word was made of 5 characters, so he passed the next four words, and read the fifth. That one had 7 characters, so he passed the next six words, etc. Slowly, he constructed the real message. When he had read it, he activated the last part of the program. The screen went black; the chip was formatted, and rendered useless. After taking it out of the machine, the assassin threw it away.
Two months.
He would have to wait for at least another two months.
And then Carl Cole would die.