Sector 010
Captain's Log, May 13, 2154. We're five days out of Deneva, and three days past the Beta Rigel system, traveling at full cruising speed towards the location of the attack on the Vulcan freighter. I'm not sure what we'll find there—very likely, nothing—but at the moment, we have very little else to go on.
Tensions on the ship are inordinately high due to the presence of a subspace echo. It has been holding a relative position roughly one light-year to our ventral starboard for much of the past two days. Engineering has torn apart and rebuilt three separate sensor relays, and as of the moment, the echo does not appear to be a sensor glitch.
...
"Maâlîk." Soong chuckled with obvious gratification as he watched the displays scroll across the overhead monitors of sickbay, side-by-side with Doctor Phlox. Together, the two men were reviewing the DNA fragments recovered by the Vulcans for any hint, any indication, any sign of something out of order; anything that would give the Enterprise an edge.
It would help, Phlox reflected, if Soong was sincere about helping. Ten days into the mission, and Soong had yet to provide anything of value, offering only sardonic comments and misdirection; taking great joy in the desultory pursuit of his offspring as though it were a game, with the confidence of an adult playing against a child.
Phlox wanted to hit him.
Soong kept chuckling as he watched the genetic sequences, instantly converting the mélange of lines and letters into a living being, a face and identity, the blood and viscera of real life. "That sequence right…here," he narrated, a little pompously, pointing to an otherwise-indistinguishable line of genetic code. "Only Maâlîk has that one."
Phlox peered at it suspiciously. "What exactly does it do?"
"It helps protect his hemoglobin from competitive molecules," Soong replied, shrugging nonchalantly. "He'll never have to worry about carbon monoxide poisoning. Truth be told, I'm not surprised that Maâlîk was involved with the attack."
Phlox counted to three before biting. "Why is that?"
"Maâlîk was the rebellious one," Soong replied, the pride evident in his tone. "Reminded me of myself when I was his age, in fact. I had to punish him a number of times…but it only encouraged him to become more creative in his efforts," Soong added, his eyes misting over with reverie. "Do you have children, Doctor?"
"I do," Phlox replied slowly. "I have three sons and two daughters."
"And when was the last time you saw them?"
"It's been a couple years," Phlox admitted, smiling bashfully as he saw where Soong was leading him. "And yes, I've kept in touch with them."
"Ahh." Soong let the single syllable drag out. "So you know where they are? And you know what they're doing with their lives? And you had the chance to see them grow, see them develop, into vibrant young adults?" As he spoke, Soong's cooing sarcasm became sharper. "My children were ten years old, Doctor, when I was ripped away from them. And they weren't simply given to someone else; they were cast out, exiled from all of humanity, left to fend for their own, at the ripe age of ten! Oh, I knew they'd survive," Soong added, no longer disguising the acerbic resentment; involuntarily, Phlox shifted away from the doctor, as if fleeing the acrid bitterness. "They're too intelligent, too strong. But I've spent every day of the last ten years not knowing where my children are!"
More rattled then he cared to admit, Phlox's mind scrambled for a neutral topic. "This is extremely sophisticated work for twentieth-century Earth," he commented, trying to quash the quaver in his voice.
"Well, I added some modifications of my own." Like that, the veil fell back over Soong's expression, hiding his animus beneath the familiar masquerade of a sarcastic smile and mocking lilt. "Isn't the goal of every parent to improve their offspring?"
"Really?" Phlox's reply flickered between intrigue and alarm. "What kind of modifications?"
"Nothing that need concern you." Soong's eyes flashed momentarily.
The words slipped out before Phlox could stop himself. "I think it already has."
The human whirled about swiftly, fixing angered daggers on Phlox. "What are you saying, Denobulan?" Soong spat out venom. "It's fine when your people do it, but, 'Oh, God!'" Flinging his arms in the air, Soong raised his voice to a panicked falsetto. "'We can't trust those humans with genetics!' Because obviously, Doctor, your people are so much better than we humans when it comes to medicine!"
"When humans tried genetic augmentation, the result was thirty million deaths!" Phlox rejoined fiercely, his ire blazing to the scorching point, his fury moving him forward until Phlox was staring down at the human doctor. "Maybe we have good reason to not trust humans with genetics!"
"Ah, and there it is!" Soong shot back, with an acerbic sneer, over the shoulders of two rapidly-moving security officers. Together, they lifted Soong, shifting him backward even while a raised hand halted Phlox in his path. "What, humans are incapable of learning from their mistakes?"
"Humans can," Phlox snarled. "But you haven't."
"I was raising my children with a sense of responsibility, Doctor!" Soong hollered back, struggling futilely with the iron grip of the guards. "They weren't tyrants in the making! At least, until I was taken away from them!"
As his wave of anger ebbed away, Phlox regarded Soong suspiciously. "You really believe that, don't you?"
It sent Soong's eyebrows upward in surprise. "Of course," he replied, the shock vanquishing his fury. "It's not as though there's a gene controlling ambition—and if there was, we could simply turn it off. The flaws of the Chrysalis Project had nothing to do with genetics; those children were raised to be egocentric tyrants."
"And that's how you propose to make it work?" Phlox answered slowly, weighing the argument with great care. "You believe that it is a simple matter of conditioning?"
"Isn't that how your people do it?" Soong jabbed back, unable to pass on the opportunity. "But can't you see the possibilities, Doctor? If I can demonstrate that humans can engage in genetic augmentation, without that shit resulting—" This was punctuated with a hand flung outward for emphasis. "Curing disease and neurological disorders is only the beginning. Imagine if we strengthened physical resistance to hard radiation—or modified the respiratory system to function in a thin atmosphere. We could ensure the survival of the human race."
Somewhere
Raâkîn was weary.
Sitting in the command chair of the Ba'Sugh, the exile leader let his body slump forward, catching his face in the palm of his hands. His index fingers traced upward, finding his temples, and he began to massage gently; augmented blood vessels pressed against soft brain tissue, causing a never-ending ache that at times grew into crippling pains.
A part of him—the neural pathways that flew faster than computers, the memory nodes that stored away every detail of his life—could recall and identify, to the minute, how long it had been since the exiles left their refuge. Another part of him preferred not to, yearning for the simplicity of memories that ran together, merging into one, obliterating the pounding remembrance of every second of every day. There were times when it was too much; when he sought the solace of forgetfulness, but could not find it.
It had been—days—since their flight began, heading further and further away from a planet they had never seen, a planet that taunted the exiles with the pain of their eternal banishment. Endless duty, endless work, details requiring his attention at every moment; keeping the Ba'Sugh operating smoothly, overseeing their creature needs, constantly adjudicating disputes that threatened to spill over, shattering the delicate order that he was able to maintain.
And then there was the constant danger of pursuers, some bent on rage, others vengeance, others acting out of fear; the outcomes, though different, were the same. One was a quick death, another a painful death; and another the insanity-inducing monotony of lifetime confinement. Was there a single being out there who would allow the exiles to achieve the liberty that was, after all, the human dream? Or were the übermenschen condemned to an existence as a permanent caste of undesirables?
Taking a deep breath, Raâkîn dropped his hands and leaned backward, rolling his head toward the ceiling. There were those among his brothers and sisters who wanted to turn back; some in the mistaken belief that the exiles could somehow overpower the entirety of Earth, twenty Augments against four billion baseline humans, and others desiring a self-destructive blaze of glory, a perverse declaration of their unwillingness to subject themselves to the strictures of a flawed society.
No. He had a duty to his brethren, and he would protect them.
Sector 010
Porthos leapt into sudden alertness, awaking his slumbering companion.
A split second later, the wail of the Enterprise's alarm sirens came crashing into the captain's quarters, but Archer was already on his feet and propelling himself, in the dizzying state of incomplete wakefulness, his mind automatically cataloguing the specific pattern. Unidentified ship, his brain registered. Potentially hostile. It could be worse, but it could also be better.
Mentally cursing the fool at Starfleet Command who had decided upon awkward-to-get-into coveralls for uniforms, Archer slipped on a pair of sweatpants and grabbed a t-shirt as he fell through the doorway, catching himself with well-honed grace on the bulkhead immediately across. Dimly aware of his surroundings, he noted peripherally as crewmembers hastened around him to their own duty posts, each one making way for another in an intricate dance of practiced precision.
Porthos, content that his duty was done, curled up on the now-vacant warm spot on the bed and fell straight asleep.
...
Travis, standing at the focal point of activity, acknowledged Archer with a curt "Captain!" as his superior hit the bridge, lift doors hissing shut behind him. The transfer of command was that simple. "Two unidentified vessels on intercept!" Travis reported briskly, stepping down from the command dais. The young crewman manning the helm moved aside quickly, and Travis slid into the console, already readjusted mentally from command to navigation.
Archer forced himself to slow down, enough to take stock of the bridge as he crossed to his command chair. They were in the middle of third shift; Travis was only present due to an amended command schedule, and the remainder of the posts were still manned by relief officers—in the corner of his eye, Archer noted the arrival of Hoshi, seemingly from nowhere and dressed in something that looked suspiciously like a bathing robe.
"Vector!" Archer ordered as he trotted into the well, forgoing his command chair for his preferred vantage point over Travis' shoulder. "The subspace echo?"
Travis shook his head sharply. "Different vector, sir. And the echo disappeared a few seconds after the ships registered on our sensors."
"Meaning?"
"Just a guess, Captain, but I'd say sensor drone," Travis answered remotely, the active portion of his mind subsumed in three-dimensional navigation.
The lift doors opened again, registering subconsciously on the captain's mind as Commander Reed and Ensign Jordan were deposited onto the bridge, rounding out the primary crew. As the two officers trotted to their respective duty posts, Archer tapped a control, tamping down the screech of the siren. "Malcolm, I need an ID on those ships!" he barked out, glancing over his shoulder. "And time to intercept!"
"They're coming in fast!" Verena responded first, pulling the data from her science console. "TTI at twenty-seven seconds!"
"Hoshi!" Archer snapped out.
"The freshly-minted lieutenant needed no more direction. "No response yet!" she called back. Her face puckered as she scanned the subspace channels, searching for any indication of a signal.
"Captain!" Malcolm's holler brought a sense of cold silence to the bridge. "ID'd as two Orion heavy cruisers."
Their luck had run out.
...
"We're in range," Khali'Haas announced gruffly. "Passing two hundred pedj-aa." The burly, green-skinned Orion stood to one side of the command deck, manning the tactical readouts, and he tilted his head only slightly towards the boss to indicate that he was awaiting orders; it would have been improper to alter his gaze from the sensor readings.
"Close to a hundred pedj-aa," Vatis'Kish grunted. A quick survey of the command deck, laid out before him, confirmed that his ship and crew were ready; but then, he expected nothing less. The unknown vessel on his viewscreen—an off-shaped disc with gangly nacelle pylons jutting out the rear—was an unexpected find, but hardly enough to alarm a professional crew
"Come about to station keeping. Do we have an ID on the ship?"
"Waiting," Khali'Haas replied, the practiced shorthand coming automatically. "The databanks have a single hit, Boss. No name given, but it's listed as being affiliated with the government of Earth."
"Earth?" The boss' head turned slowly, purposely, towards his officer as he spoke; the identification was unusual enough to require confirmation.
The response came a moment later. "Yeah, Boss. Something called 'Starfleet'…cross-referenced as being a government agency."
Now that's odd, Vatis'Kish mused silently. Earth had no official presence for dozens of light-years. His voice boomed across the command deck as he checked off the list in his mind. "Power and weaponry?"
A sudden bark of bemused laughter answered. "According to their power signature, it should be equivalent to a light cruiser," another Orion answered, his jewelry jangling as he shook his head with perplexed surprise. "But the weaponry—my grandmother's yacht is better armed, Boss."
"Hey, Boss, you gotta see this," Khali'Haas chimed in, chortling audibly. "Says here that ship is Earth's entire long-range fleet!" The pronouncement sent a rousing chorus of derisive catcalls across the command deck.
Vatis'Kish sat back in his chair, amused by their find. "I don't think this is the ship we're looking for, boys," he added, his stolid expression countered by a jocular tone. The ship before them was scarcely capable of hijacking a Klingon bird-of-prey; hell, he reflected wryly, it could barely best an unarmed freighter.
"Orders, Boss?"
Vatis'Kish sat silently for a moment while the laughter subsided, weighing options in his mind; toying with the idea of simply seizing the ship for scrap and its crew for slaves, as was customary with most insignificant spacecraft. It would barely even be a training exercise, he mused, forming a plan of attack in his head.
But—but he was not out here looking for seizure; he was out here looking for answers. And, he admitted, the Earth starship was piquing his curiosity; only a fool—or someone very audacious—would travel in these regions without proper defenses. Which one are these humans? And perhaps…are they connected, at all, with the reports of human pirates?
It called for inquiry. "Hail them," Vatis'Kish ordered brusquely.
...
"Captain, incoming hail!" Hoshi announced across the bridge of the Enterprise, her brow furrowing as she focused on isolating the signal. "They're requesting visual!"
Jonathan Archer nodded slowly as he straightened his posture, doing his best to project an image of a strong—albeit half-dressed—starship captain. "On screen, Hoshi," he ordered, steeling himself against the precariousness of their plight.
The view of the two cruisers disappeared, replaced with an interior shot dwarfed by the presence of a hulking Orion, presumably the commander of the two-ship formation; the green giant's head nearly filled the screen, covered with silver jewelry and barbells that glinted in the light. The remainder, a montage of surprisingly-warm golden-browns and tans, was barely visible around the periphery of the screen.
Archer had never seen an Orion before; at least, not in person. Computer images, he realized, just didn't do the beings justice; a chill sunk to the pit of his stomach, where it lay inert, a leaden ball of frozenness within.
The beast's generous smile belied the air of calm lethality that he projected. "I am Vatis'Kish," he pronounced magnanimously, his tone one of perfect hospitality; the affability set Archer's hair on end. "We couldn't help but notice that you're a newcomer to the region. Is there something we can help you with? Some supplies, perhaps? Food and beverage? Or perhaps your crew is tired, and would prefer some rest and entertainment," he added breezily. "I'm sure they've earned some time off."
Archer did his best to shrug casually as he tried to match the imposing figure. "We're out here exploring," he called out, forcing his voice steady. "I'm Jonathan Archer, captain of the Earth starship Enterprise."
"Indeed?" Vatis'Kish raised his voice with seeming surprise. "Captain, if you need starcharts, all you have to do is ask. Our generosity is legendary, after all."
"Perhaps later," Archer replied steadily, beginning to settle into his usual groove. "May I ask what you're doing here? As far as my…flawed starcharts indicate, this isn't Hegemony space."
"Nor is it Earth space," Vatis'Kish observed, as his jowls shook with a boisterous chuckle. "But the Hegemony has…interests in this region. I'm simply here to protect them."
Archer exchanged a quick, darting look with Malcolm before pressing forward. "And what are those interests?" It was risky, acting as though he had the upper hand against a man accustomed to power, but Archer had no intention of yielding.
"We came out here looking for a ship of humans," Vatis'Kish replied, and Archer felt a rushing chill as the air on the Enterprise bridge dropped rapidly; the Orion's voice grew quiet, unveiling a steel edge. "And we found a ship of humans. Quite a coincidence, wouldn't you say?"
Shit. Shit. Shit. Archer repeated the word unwillingly as his mind raced, trying to land on something better to say. Are the Orions also looking for the Augments? Do the Orions know that they're Augments? And that they're rogues, acting completely on their own? Or—and the thought was not pleasant—do they think that we're working with the Augments?
...
"Although I have to say, Captain, you're not quite what I expected," Vatis'Kish commented dryly as he sat back, sending a practiced air of indifference. "You're a little puny. And rather pink." He squinted his eyes closely, noting that only two of the five humans fit that description; but he let it pass, electing to let the intended derision stand. "I don't suppose there could be two human crews out here, could there?"
The human captain took a moment before responding. "There could be many," he answered finally, somewhat combatively, searching for a safe escape from the trap question.
"Captain, are you saying that there are humans operating without your government's knowledge?" Vatis'Kish smiled, only slightly, as he laid another snare.
"If you knew of any, I'm sure you'd share the information with us," the human came back swinging. "I've heard about your 'generosity' in such matters."
"Such rumors would be a far better explanation for your presence than 'starcharting,' Captain Archer," the Orion boss observed, feeling the advantage opening before him. "But since you mention it…yes, we have heard rumors of a crew of humans operating along the Corridor. They've allegedly hijacked a Klingon bird-of-prey." And there's my mark, Vatis'Kish thought with satisfaction; the human flinched differently to the two pieces of information. The second one surprised him, but the first one didn't.
But…the boss flipped through his mind, cataloguing thoughts and possibilities. A pirate crew eventually needs a base of operations—particularly one operating so far from their home planet. And the only nest of humans out here—are Soong's brood. Soong and his genetic freakshow.
As he dredged up half-forgotten memories, the boss frowned to himself. The human doctor Soong had made several arrangements with the Orion Syndicate; but agents from Earth had hunted down the doctor, and returned him to that beggarly ball of rock. What am I missing here?
The children, he realized. The children were never located. And now…they'd be adults. And they might just be enhanced enough to best Klingons in physical combat.
...
"Thank you, Captain," the Orion's voice boomed, reverberating across the Enterprise bridge with baritone gravitas. "It's been a pleasure meeting you. And if there's something we can do for you—please, don't hesitate to ask."
Archer caught himself before responding to the now-closed comm channel.
"Helm, set a basic strafing pattern," Vatis'Kish ordered abruptly, addressing the pilot before him. "And weapons—set a simple attack. I want them shaken up, damaged a little, but not dead in space."
There was little flurry of activity as the cruiser's crew shifted smoothly into battle readiness. "Have the transporters preselect targets for abduction—nine, let's say," Vatis'Kish added, going with the simple round number. "But leave their command staff. Check off."
"Helm, ready."
"Weapons, ready," Khali'Haas rumbled.
"Transporters, ready."
The boss grunted once with satisfaction. He'd come out here searching for a purported crew of human pirates—but a much riper opportunity, a chance to challenge and evaluate these humans, was sitting before him.
Let's see what they do. "Execute."
...
"Captain, the cruisers are moving—"
"They're closing, strafing run!"
"Travis, evasive! Malcolm, lock and return fire!"
Alarms rang out across the Enterprise as the starship trembled, concussed by the punch of raw energy slamming against the hull in great spurts of fiery lightning; the backwash of her own torpedoes rocked the Enterprise again as the warheads rocketed forward, acquiring their target on the fly. In rapid succession, three struck the Orion cruiser, leaving little damage but black scarring on the hull; the fourth flew past into the darkness, where it would self-detonate after a pre-set length of time.
"Status!" Archer snapped, staggering towards the relative stability of his command chair. Around him, the bridge rocked furiously as the inertial dampeners screamed, overloaded by the punch of weaponry; the crew was clinging to their posts, knuckles white in effort as they hung on.
"They're coming about for another run!" Verena hollered out, charting their foe's movements on the science console. "Helm, there's a hole at bearing—two-four-one-mark-seven!"
"Get us out, Travis!" Archer roared, struggling to propel his voice over the racket. A harsh whine spiraled upward before shattering, spraying pungent gases across the bridge, forcing Archer to clench his eyes tightly against the caustic vapors; feeling the heat of fire on his skin, he dove to the deck. "Malcolm, cover fire!"
In the depths of his cells, the captain felt the Enterprise keel hard, pushed to its limits by the tight turn; and in the growing darkness, the world shuddered hard as the starship leapt to warp.
As the Enterprise retreated, the Orion cruisers turned sedately and departed, content with their plunder.
Somewhere
The Ba'Sugh was not large enough.
Angrily pounding his way down the central corridor, Raâkîn imagined every footfall smashing onto Maâlîk's head, crushing his brother like a rotten melon, the bloody gore spattering against the deck plating and bulkheads. Each time, it felt good, ever so satisfying, to twist his heel into the remains, crunching the bone fragments amidst the grayish tissue.
But each time he lifted his foot, Maâlîk was still there, his face intact, mocking the leader with an easy air of impudence, always waiting around a corner, always waiting for an opportunity to defy Raâkîn, always pressing the leader to the edge of the line before backing away, knowing that he had chipped away—ever so slightly—at Raâkîn's rightful authority, at Raâkîn's necessary authority.
As the days wore on, sealed within a metallic coffin hurtling light-year after light-year into the darkest, coldest depths of space, Raâkîn could feel his power slipping away beneath the repeated effronteries of his brother. For even in the strict autocracy of the exiles, Raâkîn's authority was not limitless; and Maâlîk had become an expert at maneuvering just beyond those limits.
And the others—Pêrsîs, Pûrâh, Tûrêl; Câîm, Ruâx, and onward—were beginning to doubt their leader. Raâkîn had been, and still was, the strongest; none of the exiles were foolish enough to challenge him in physical combat. But strength was only part of leadership among the exiles—a great leader also had to be the most intelligent, the most cunning.
A great leader would not allow himself to be outmaneuvered by an insolent brat.
His sharp ears detected the sound of an approaching person, but Raâkîn's furious pace did not slacken; for his nose also detected the exile, identifying it as Pêrsîs. She, at least, was no threat to him; Pêrsîs had long ago yoked her own future to that of Raâkîn.
"He argues with every command I give!" Raâkîn snarled, lashing out verbally with the hot fury of anger and frustration. Pêrsîs paused briefly, standing a pace away, but did not flinch. "He defies me in front of the others! Does he really think that he could do a better job of leading us? Everything he's done has only subjected us to more danger!"
Pêrsîs dropped her eyes in acknowledgement before speaking. "Some of them agree with what Maâlîk did," she replied, softly, having no difficulty identifying the subject of Raâkîn's ire. "They may be shortsighted," she hastened to add, "but Father himself used to say that 'It is humiliating to remain with our hands folded while others write history.'"
"The course that he proposes will lead to our deaths!" Raâkîn's lengthy blond locks flew about as he shook his head. "Have they forgotten how we've stayed alive all these years?"
"They believe that it is the struggle itself that will redeem us, Raâkîn."
"And our survival has not been a worthwhile struggle?" Raâkîn exhaled mightily. "Surviving on that cursed rock has been a far greater test of our greatness!"
"And it was your resolve that kept us together, and kept us alive," Pêrsîs responded. "But what of greater goals beyond the daily grind of survival? Many believe that we were little better than prisoners on that rock, and that Maâlîk liberated us."
"So be it!" Raâkîn cried out, tossing his arms upward with sudden exacerbation. "But our destiny lies ahead of us, in creating a new world, rather than behind us, in a fool's crusade to conquer an old one!"
"'The more we consider and observe the future and the development of a new humanity, the less we believe in the possibility or desirability of peace," Pêrsîs quoted.
Raâkîn's eyes narrowed into icy slits. "You agree with them," he spat out venomously.
"How can you say that?" Pêrsîs asked softly, stepping back as if stung.
"I can hear it in your voice." Emitting an air of disgust, Raâkîn stepped aside through a hatchway, entering the private quarters of the Ba'Sugh's one-time master. As he expected, Persis followed him in.
"Maalik's doing more than arguing with your commands," she whispered, quietly, despite the relative solitude of the room. "He's conspiring with others to remove you." There it was: the deed was done.
"And how do you know this?" Raâkîn hissed suspiciously. If it were true—and he needed evidence, albeit little—this was his opportunity. But could he trust Pêrsîs?
Pêrsîs reached out, taking Raâkîn's hand in her own. "He told me," she answered, cautiously. "Maâlîk's always wanted me. I knew he was planning something, so I let him think I wanted him as well." She ran her hands over Raâkîn's muscular chest. "He said you're weak, that you're making all of us weak, that you're betraying Father's principles, that if Father were here, he'd choose Maâlîk to lead us." The words spilled out quickly.
For the first time in days, Raâkîn's thoughts were crystal clear. "I'm going to kill him."
Sector 010
"What do you mean?" Archer's words thudded painfully in his own mind, beating his head from left to right as he fell into the desk chair. Colors and objects still swirled before him, forcing the captain to close his eyes as he sought to suppress the nausea; and as he felt the soft pressure of a hypospray discharging its contents into his neck, the world began to steady.
"We've checked the ship twice," Hoshi replied. "Nine crewmembers are uncounted for. Several eyewitnesses state that they saw the missing crew vanish in something resembling a transporter beam."
"Wait—who did?" Archer's memory was nearly black as he struggled to recall—anything.
"Easy, sir," the medical technician, Crewman Kazuri, intervened quickly . "We need to get you down to sickbay, sir."
"Oh." Archer stood up slowly, guided by Kazuri's hands. "Of course. T'Pol has the bridge."
"Sir, T'Pol's not—" Hoshi let the sentence die half-formed as the captain shuffled towards the door; she could notify Malcolm of his temporary command herself.
...
"We have a duty, Lieutenant!" Malcolm snapped at the younger woman, allowing his frustration to mix with umbrage at Hoshi's suggestion; pent-up anger and a need for vengeance warred within, fighting against cold-hearted judgment and dispassionate critique. "You can't seriously expect me to abandon our mission!"
"I'm not asking you to abandon our mission!" Hoshi shot back hotly, standing toe-to-toe before her superior officer. Having just checked on the captain's condition, the two had withdrawn themselves to a small waiting room off sickbay; but it scarcely seemed large enough to hold them. "And we do have a duty—to our crewmates!" Hoshi added furiously, as her own temper spiked upward.
"I know, Lieutenant!" Emitting a wretched groan, Malcolm rolled his head backward, lifting his face and closing his eyes as he struggled to bring his ire back under control; he focused on breathing deeply, and as the wave of fury passed, he was beset by a force of exhaustion. "I know, Hoshi," he said again, this time tiredly. He ran both hands through his hair, leaving the usually-precise strands in shambles. "But do you really believe that the Augments will wait around for us? There's many more lives at stake here. We have to stop the Augments before they kill more people."
Hoshi let out a slow breath. "Sir, all I'll say is this—I know what the captain would do."
"Damn you, Hoshi," Malcolm muttered, but little anger resided beneath the imprecation. "But we have no idea where the Orions are taking our people."
"No," Hoshi acknowledged. "But Soong spent ten years out here. He might know."
Somewhere
Game. Set. Match.
Oddly enough, despite the volumes of encyclopedias stored in the enhanced memory nodes of his brain, Raâkîn did not know the origin of the quip.
But he knew the meaning.
There was little value in stealth; his prey would identify Raâkîn, well before he was within striking range. Surprise, then, would have to come through guise, through a charade of nonchalant normalcy, until Raâkîn was positioned to strike.
The shorter exile was ahead of Raâkîn, tending to minor maintenance on a data relay, muttering half-words and phrases under his breath as he fiddled with a recalcitrant stem bolt. Without looking up, Maâlîk was no doubt aware of Raâkîn's presence; but Maâlîk did not flinch, treating the leader with the coldness of silent indifference.
Raâkîn had calculated his attack in thorough detail, but as he entered the alcove, the exile reviewed it once more, scanning for any flaws, comparing his memory against the real-life terrain of the ad hoc battlefield. His optimum point was precisely set, like an X marking the spot; and as he reached it, Raâkîn calmly lifted a Klingon disruptor pistol, pointing it directly at the back of Maâlîk's head.
Now, as if sensing the gun, Maâlîk turned his head halfway. "What is it you want, Raâkîn?" he asked, his tone spurring careless disdain.
"I know of your plans, Maâlîk," the leader bellowed, his voice dripping with revulsion. "I know that you have treason in your heart."
Maâlîk nodded once, then a second time; and slowly, he lifted his hands above his head, as if showing that he was unarmed. "Pêrsîs told you," he stated.
At last, the games were done, the shadow-boxing over. "Yes," Raâkîn spat out, hurtling blackened bile to the deck plating. "She is not a traitor, like you!"
Slowly, nonchalantly, Maâlîk turned around, keeping his hands in the air. "Treason is in the eye of the beholder, my brother."
It sent a deepened sense of alarm rushing through Raâkîn. "What do you mean?" he growled, warring between anger and suspicion.
"Is it treason to remove a traitor?" Maâlîk rejoined.
And Raâkîn cursed himself, for he was an idiot.
From behind, two other exiles stepped from the shadows, leveling disruptor rifles at their former leader, and Raâkîn's chest heaved with anguished fury. "Tûrêl," he said, catching the slightest glimpse over his shoulder. "Pûrâh." They were two of his most trusted, his closest friends in childhood, his staunchest allies in duty.
He knew the cautionary story of Khan Noonien Singh, knew of the constant in-fighting and backstabbing; but in the blossom of his youth, Raâkîn had never believed that his siblings would abandon him.
"They only listen to me now," Maâlîk said, intense satisfaction in his voice. Haltingly, Raâkîn lowered his pistol; and at a gesture from Maâlîk, the other two lowered their own weapons.
A sense of eerie calm fell upon Raâkîn as he lifted his arms to the side, dropping the pistol to the deck plates as he held his hands outward; and he closed his eyes, rolling his head backward, barely flinching as the steel blade of a d'k'tahg sliced into him. Raâkîn's thoughts drifted away in a white haze as the pain seared through him, the serrated edges ripping into muscle and organ, turning his innards into a bloody mass that poured out, and Raâkîn gave a whispery smile; for in this last moment, he realized why it was destined to end this way.
"Farewell, my brother," Maalik whispered, withdrawing the knife from Raâkîn's sundered body; and the corpse fell, hitting its knees before collapsing, face down, onto the deck.
The Leader was dead; all hail the new Leader.
Sector 010
There was no silence aboard a starship.
Truth be told, silence was a deadly thing when sealed in a tritanium coffin in the deep confines of interstellar space. The noise—the constant thrums, the sudden whistlings, the howls and growls and shuddering vibrations—were the guarantors of survival amid the ravages of the universe.
Even now, as the prisoner sat cross-legged on the floor of the modified crew quarters, his eyes closed and his mind at ease, he could discern a plethora of distinct noises; each one playing its part in forming the sonata which so often faded into the background. Trapped as he was in a makeshift cell, the prisoner could sketch the movements in his mind, following the trembling vibratos and sliding glissandos, the pounding strettos and accelerating scherzos; the jarring staccatos and unbalanced fugues.
The Enterprise had gone into battle, but the other side had fired first; careful listening identified the precise tenor of Orion disruptors, followed by the disharmonious wail of a brutal assault, ranging from the deepened bass of lumbering engines to the screeching ululation of overloading circuitry. Together, they crafted a symphony of a battle gone wrong, a starship beaten and reeling, at the mercy of a greater foe.
The battle had ended, and the Enterprise was stricken; drifting in space, unable to hold its balance, the crew scrambling about to repair the clamor of unmelodious wounds before the shrieking reached critical.
But it mattered little to the prisoner in billet E-22. For even the harsh dissonance blended together, forming a smooth adagio on which his mind drifted, spreading out across the immaterial specks of stellar dust that existed even here, light-years away from the closest star. He could feel the chill, but was not frozen; he could feel the harsh glow of radiation, but was not burnt; he could feel the tremors of the universe upon him, but did not quiver.
The prisoner's ears gave him a momentary warning when the disruption came, heralded by the heavy, angered footfalls of boots outside the door to his quarters; and the hatchway hissed open, almost expressing its own peevishness. Moving quickly, the prisoner scrambled to his feet, not quite securing his balance before the intruder was upon him, the prisoner's lapels gripped tightly in two fists, his nose recoiling from the hot breath that assaulted him.
"They took nine of our people!" Malcolm snarled angrily, pressing the prisoner into the opposing bulkhead with crashing force. "You set us up, Soong!"
Unflustered, Soong opted to reply with a smirk. "The Orions never used to harass Earth ships," he answered, his tone taunting the irate Starfleet officer. "It's a shame. You must've done something to upset them."
Malcolm slammed the prisoner into the bulkhead a second time. "How do I get them back, Soong?"
"Patience, Lieutenant," Soong tsked, intentionally misstating the officer's rank. "Haste makes waste, after all."
With a furious growl, Malcolm tossed the limp prisoner onto his bunk, but made no further movement towards him. "I have nine crewmates at stake, Soong," he rejoined, his voice grumbling with suppressed fury. "They may only be flawed and imperfect baseline humans, but I'm willing to risk your life to save them."
Soong's face slackened with mollification. "I have no dislike of your crew, Commander," he answered, with a rare air of honesty. "Why do you assume that I wouldn't be willing to help you rescue them?"
"I—" Malcolm's thoughts fumbled for a brief moment, weighing the doctor's answer, before opting to take it at face value. "So how do we get them back?"
"That depends," Soong replied, his voice slipping back into its sardonic taunt. "Who attacked you?"
"An Orion," Malcolm answered. "His name was—Vatis'Kish," he added, a little uncertainly.
Soong's face fell slightly. "My, my, you've certainly provoked the big boys, haven't you?"
Malcolm didn't flinch. "Where can we find him, Soong?"
"Vatis'Kish operates a trading facility in the Gamma Deuteron Ceti system," Soong answered, somewhat airily. "He'll no doubt process your people as slaves."
"Very well." Malcolm turned to leave, but was caught short by a punctuated statement from the prisoner.
"You're not planning to just charge in, are you?" Soong asked, with a hair-raising tone of pithiness. "You'll never get out."