The first thing Starfleet Academy selects for is the skill to function under high pressure. Scores of psych tests weed out the lesser willed applicants throughout the years of training.
No matter how intense the circumstances – a star about to go nova, a Klingon armada, alien virus ravaging the ship – they are trained to let their efficiency suffer no impairment. They are pretty much immune to panic.
Of course, this had a certain downside – tension the crew could handle perfectly well. It was lack of tension they had trouble with. Which was why, except among the science departments involved, star mapping missions were looked upon as a term in purgatory. The young captain held the same view, though the dignity of his position prevented him from complaining as vociferously as many of his subordinates were doing.
James Kirk was currently engaged in fantasizing about what exactly he would say to Admiral Nogura if only he could get a comm. link to that august individual, instead of attending to the fuel consumption reports his long suffering yeoman had handed to him. (Fortunately the Science Officer was too engrossed in the readings of the uncharted – but profoundly dull to anyone but an astrophysicist- starscape around them to raise a disapproving eyebrow)
"Receiving a distress signal, sir"
Kirk, startled out of his reverie, had to suppress a grin of delighted anticipation. At this point, three weeks into the star-mapping cruise and with yet another interminable week left to go, even the appearance of a Klingon battlecruiser would have been welcome.
"Co-ordinates, lieutenant?"
The Communications Officer had them pinpointed already. Sulu, alert at the helm, fed in the coordinates Uhura recited. It was taken for granted that the call would be answered – that was the code of Deep Space. You never, ever, ignored a Mayday call.
However, Uhura's next words were somewhat disheartening.
"It's an automated beacon, captain. Scout ship, K-5 class. Franklin."
Automated beacon was bad business. It usually meant that there was no one left to send an actual distress message.
"What is at the coordinates? Are they dead in space?"
It was Spock who answered. "Planetside, captain. The coordinates place them on Xaheer three."
So atleast they made a landing. That meant a better prognosis of the crew's survival. They may simply have had to leave the ship for some reason or the other and left the beacon broadcasting – though it was unusual to do so without recording an additional message, just so that any busy vessel passing by wouldn't be tempted to ignore the call by assuming there was no one alive to rescue.
"Head for those coordinates, Sulu. Warp four."
By the time they were in orbit around the fourth planet of the Xaheer system, the library computer's archives had provided them with all details of the stranded ship and her current crew compliment, as well as the planet itself.
Franklin, one of the K5 class scouts, under command of Captain Ernst Smith. Sponsored by the Mining franchise SaheeraProspects. Crew compliment of twelve, including Smith. From all records, a good, competent crew with several successful missions to their credit.
"Scoutship, eh?" McCoy asked.
No one had remarked the doctor's uninvited appearance on the Bridge. By now, even Spock was resigned to the fact that nothing other than an emergency in the sickbay would call the self-styled oldfashioned country doctor away from the bridge where he had no business being.
" Smith was at the academy with me for a year. He washed out in the fourth semester. "
Many of the scoutship captains had some connection to the Starfleet. Scouting was the second best option for those who couldn't gain a berth aboard one of the mighty starships. Or those who got flung out of the Service for some reason or the other. Prospecting companies were usually more than willing to snap them up, provided they had washed out based on personal rather than technical shortcomings.
Deep space missions demanded a very unusual combination of personality traits – stable enough to function under circumstances were the very laws of physics could seem just guidelines, flexible enough to roll with practically anything the universe could throw at them. Functionally insane, according to most planetbound psychologists. The requirements of a scoutship's prospecting voyage were considerably less demanding, mentally and physically.
"Remember much about the guy?"
"Not really." Kirk admitted. "He wasn't the sort who gets noticed easily. Steady, hard working, all that. But the psyche scans found something off – a slightly higher than acceptable susceptibility to pressure or something of the sort. Fatal aboard a starship, but a scouting voyage would be right up his alley."
"Except this one clearly went down the wrong alley. No natives to complicate stuff, I hope?"
"None. There are ruins, apparently, but all life forms appear to have been wiped out. No one has found out how, have they, Spock?"
"It would be more accurate to say no effort has been made to find out, Captain" the Science Officer reported. " it is situated considerably far from the usual shipping lanes, and while it does contain a considerable wealth of minerals, notably Ferrous ores, there is nothing of particular importance, or which could not be obtained at much less expense elsewhere. The ruins have attracted the attention of archaeologists, but a survey of the system has not been approved yet. The vessel which reported the discovery of the planet could only conduct a preliminary scan. Once it was conclusively established that the planet held neither intelligent population nor valuable resources, attention was diverted away from it."
"Meaning you'd like to have a good look at the place while we are there?" Kirk suggested, with a grin.
"As we would no doubt be forced to spend some time in orbit…"
"Naturally, it would only be logical to put that time to good use. Let's first see what Smith and crew ran into."
…
The Enterprise team beamed down next to the intact scoutship. No signs of a crashlanding or mechanical failure. The streamlined scout was in perfect shape. The same could not be said of the crew.
"God in Heaven" McCoy whispered. He had had to get used to scenes of violence in his work, but his was…
"They were slaughtered" Kirk muttered, equally taken aback by the scene of carnage that met his eyes. The bodies lay scattered around and in the ship, all showing vicious signs of trauma. Beaten, stabbed, slashed…
"There's one alive" Blatantly ignoring caution in a way even Jim rarely did, McCoy rushed into the ship.
Two of the security guards and Kirk followed at his heels. Spock and the guard assigned to him remained outside, scanning for anything that could explain the disaster.
No life forms, at least, none within the tricorder's range. No energy fluctuations. No atmospheric chemicals that could potentially unleash a psychotic episode. Not conclusive, of course, as the threat could have moved away from this location. At any rate, there was no apparent threat to the landing party right now.
There was only one of the dozen left alive, and not by much. Ernst Smith had been savaged as wildly as any of his crew. As far as McCoy could see, the only thing that explained his survival was sheer stubbornness.
"I've got to get him to the sickbay, Jim. And right now. He's hanging on by a thread."
Kirk nodded and pulled out his communicator.
"Kirk to Transporter room. Dr McCoy and one of the Franklin crew to beam aboard."
"Med Team" McCoy called out.
"Med team to the transporter room, serious trauma."
Kyle was good at his job. No sooner had Kirk finished speaking that the golden whirl of the transporter beam took McCoy and Smith, leaving the rest of the landing party to investigate.
(Four days earlier)
Ernst Smith knew, from the moment he woke up, that this was going to be one of the bad days. He could hear someone humming cheerily out in the corridor as the door of his sleeping quarters slid open before him.
"Good morning, Ernst!" Lilian Hopkins, his second in command, called out before resuming her humming with even more gusto.
Smith nodded gruffly, refraining from asking what exactly was so good about it – Lilian could probably list about a dozen reasons, anyway, if he was fool enough to ask. That was one of the things he found either freaking adorable or sufficient reason for court martial, depending on his mood.
The other crew members – the six who were on this shift - greeted him as he passed. He returned the greetings, even managed a couple of smiles. The others didn't have apparently terminal cases of Polyanna syndrome like Lilian, but right now, it would have been hard for Smith to find anything that pleased him.
He managed to put on a sufficient show. After all, the captain could not afford to let silly things like moods affect him. Not visibly, anyway.
He would have been mortified to discover that not only did his crew know he was in a foul mood, but also the cause of said foul mood, perfectly well. They had, after all, worked with him for years.
They knew, and they didn't mind.
Smith was a good boss, a fair boss. He commanded affection and respect easily. If he had the problem of becoming something of a sourpuss for a few hours before and after a planetfall, well, one had to allow a captain some faults.
They all knew Smith had attended the Academy – something which was seriously impressive in their (and ninety percent of the population's) opinion. Only the top 10% of the applicants made it to the first year of Starfleet Academy. Of those, only 10% actually graduated.
Washing out not due to lack of grades or discipline, but simply due to a psyche score, something that was mostly genetically determined, was no cause for shame. Only, even after all these years, Smith somehow could not convince himself to see it that way.
"ETA" he demanded.
The curly headed navigator, Eddie Brennan, looked up from his instruments.
"Twenty minutes, sir." He kept his voice subdued, enthusiasm hidden.
Smith always had the worst of his sourpuss phases just before they were about to land. It was difficult not to be constantly reminded why he was here – here on an alien world, a world that could hold a million secrets. Of those, he could only afford to focus on a single one – at times a group. Whatever ore or oil or whatever the company brass was after this time.
Smith was a born explorer, an adventurer. He would have been perfectly at home as a merchant captain of some far away century, wandering the uncharted seas in quest of gold and spices. But in the 23rd century, with his employers never more than one subspace call away, his actions practically dictated hour to hour, Smith was stifled, frustrated beyond measure.
He had sought the stars since he could remember – after washing out of the Academy, this had seemed his next best option. But he had not counted on how narrow would be the explorations he would be called on to undertake. Or how harsh the disciplinary action, should he venture outside the framework programmed. The mining companies had little use of exploration for exploration's sake, and had learned to restrain it in personnel.
The captain glanced around the tiny bridge of the scoutship. He could sense the carefully disguised enthusiasm in his crew. They toned it down in response to his dour mood, but they were excited. They were enjoying their job.
Why not?
They did not have before them the images of former classmates in the gold-red-blue of the coveted Fleet. They had never had the chance to touch the stars dangled before them for a short while.
It was only he who fretted and fumed, chafed at the bit – only he who was good enough to know there was something much better out there, and not good enough to actually get there.
Sometimes he hated them. Hated them for being happy, contented, successful- because this shadow was the brightest they had ever been in, it was as warming as noon day blaze to them. But he had reached out to touch the stars, and fallen back. Fallen back to see his friends soar ahead.
Smith finally gave up trying to pull himself out of this maudlin mood and settled back in the command chair to plan their mapping duty for the next couple of days.
…
On the planet, something stirred.
Something that had been slumbering for centuries blinked awake.
The roar of the landing scoutship had not been enough to wake it – but the calls of twelve minds within the ship had. A surge of joy-relief-hope, more than that, a deep hunger. A hunger that had not been slacked for long, oh, ever so long.
The being had almost given up hope. In fact, had she been an adult of her species, she would have given up long ago, let go and sunk into the darkness the rest of her world had vanished into. But she was young, practically a child still, and she had a child's faith that everything would turn out alright.
It made perfect sense to her that rescue would come. It always did. She was the child of a world far removed in time and space and mindset from Terra, but she still had the faith in fairytale endings common with the younglings of that blue-green planet.
She did know enough to notice that these minds were different, that they did not answer her shouts, but it had been so long, oh so long, since she heard other minds.
Maybe she remembered wrong.
These were grown ups, that much even her hibernation-dulled senses could perceive. That meant every thing was alright now. Grown ups knew how to put things right.
She either did not or would not remember that the grown ups hadn't been able to put things right in the long-ago time before she went to sleep.
The grown ups stood around a large shiny metal thing – what was that supposed to do? Curious, she almost reached out a tendril of power to touch it, take control of it for a minute or two.
But no, that won't be nice, that won't be the sort of thing a good kid would do. And she really didn't want these grown ups to think she was not a good girl.
Talk to them first. Ask them to let you play with it if you want, but later. First talk. Let them know you're here, or they may think everyone's gone and go away again.
That thought – the idea of rescue being snatched back after coming so tantalizingly near – spurred her into action.
"I AM HERE!" she shouted with all the force of her young mind. "I AM HERE! DON'T GO AWAY!"
The grown ups didn't answer her. Didn't even seem to hear. Except one. He winced, as if she had said something very rude instead of just calling out. Glanced around, bewildered, as if he couldn't see her where she stood, in clear view of him and all the other grown ups.
She stared.
Why didn't he answer? Why didn't any of them answer? Was she doing this wrong? She sometimes did, she knew, even in the long-ago time. Zaxrees had had to be so patient with her, so gentle, even to teach her the rudiments of control.
"Strong," the Elder had said, "Strong, but she does not take naturally to taming that strength, bending it to her will instead of allowing it to bend her." Then, noticing her expression, the Elder's voice had turned more soothing. "There is time, Zahna'Lan. You are still so little. There's time aplenty to learn."
But there hadn't been time. Zaxrees, wise as she was, had been wrong there. There hadn't been time for any of them. And now Zahna knew so little that she could not even let the grown ups know that she was hear, that she needed help.
The grown up who had noticed was now looking at her – no, he seemed to be looking through her. No question about it. She was doing this wrong. There was only one way, she knew, to set this right, only one way to make sure they heard.
As the lone grown up who showed any interest made to turn away, Zahna gathered herself and rushed forward, letting herself flow into his mind. She did it with the same desperate abandon of a lost and sobbing child throwing itself into the arms of the first sympathetic grown up, expecting with the automatic trust of a well-loved child to find only help and warmth there.
It should have been a haven of safety, the adult's mind opening to offer a nest for the young, frightened self, keeping her safe and warm till she was able to explain.
It was, instead, horrible. Zahna found herself floundering in what seemed a sea of pain and rage and hurt – hurt above all, fueling all the rage. This wasn't right! Grown ups didn't feel this way, they didn't! Even if they did, they wouldn't let a child see them like this, wouldn't let a child fall into this lava scape of emotions.
Zahna's world had had seas and oceans lifetimes ago, but she had never been to the seashore. Never had heard of, forget experienced, a riptide. So she had no point of comparison to what pulled her in, drowning her, choking her, carrying her away in it's wild rush.
Worse than that, it is eating away at her, dissolving and devouring. Taking all her power into itself and giving nothing in return. What grown up would do this to a child?
Then she realized something that sent a flare of terror through her, making her earlier alarm seem pathetic. The grown up was flailing, panicked. He's as trapped as she is, even more so. He was unprepared for the power flowing into him.
There was no answering power in him, no well-mastered energy pf the adult that could tame and guide the young untrained mind. This grown up's mind was completely powerless, more delicate than the translucent white petals of the Marikolanth flowers that bloomed in her mother's gardens long-ago.
He's terrified, more terrified than her, without any idea what was happening to him, scrabbling for some, any, handhold. The lava of emotions surging around them was forcing them towards each other, into each other, merging into one.
She knew she must fight this, take control. This being only looked like a grown up – he's an infant, far younger than her, his power fully undeveloped. But while her power was well developed, her control was not. She could only scream and hope that one of the other grown ups would come to their help. Or were they all infants? Was that why they didn't hear her?