Chapter Eighteen
"What the hell happened?" Jon asked, shaking the sleep out of his head, looking
around and checking the bridge crew. Everybody looked as though they were just
waking up from a really good nap.
Travis was the first to chime in. "Sir, we were boarded."
"For how long?" Jon walked up to the helm and looked over Travis' shoulder.
Travis looked over his shoulder and up at his commanding officer. "Fifteen
minutes."
T'Pol interjected at that point. "They were on Deck B…the lift."
Just then, Malcolm's disembodied voice sounded over the comm system.
"Lieutenant Reed to the Bridge."
"T'Pol, scan the area for warp signatures," Jon ordered, walking over to the
Captain's chair and running a hand over his face in frustration. "Malcolm, what
the hell happened?"
"Hoshi's gone, sir," the taciturn reply came.
Em woke and bolted upright. Other than the fact that she was face down,
sleeping in the armory, she knew something was terribly wrong. She pressed the
comm until nearest her. "Lieutenant Gomez to Hoshi Sato."
She waited for an answer, holding her breath, hoping her worst fears weren't
realized. When she received no reply, she hit the wall and swore.
"Ensign Matthers, you're in charge," she shouted over her shoulder as she left
the armory in search of Hoshi not realizing she had already been taken.
On her way to the lift she ran into a disheveled Trip Tucker. "What happened?
Was it them? Is Hoshi okay?" He reached out a hand to tuck a stray hair behind
her ear.
She pushed at him, needing to ascertain the situation at hand and not needing
his attention or questions. She needed to get Hoshi back. "I don't know,
Commander. If you haven't noticed, we are at tactical alert," she stated dryly,
entering the lift.
Trip followed her, knowing she was worried about Hoshi, torn between offering
her comfort and offering her … aw, hell, he didn't know what he could offer her
to ease the pain she was obviously experiencing.
They both entered the lift, neither one speaking to the other, the overriding
anxiety over their friend tearing them apart, internally and from one another.
"All senior staff, report to the bridge," the general alert sounded.
"Come on." Trip grabbed her wrist and pulled her with him as the lift doors
opened.
The short walk to the bridge was made in silence; both worried for their
friend. As they entered the bridge, Em took her place at tactical, beside
Malcolm, and Trip walked past to the Engineering console. T'Pol studied her
scanner, as Travis manned the helm.
Captain Archer hovered over T'Pol who was still scanning for warp signatures.
She stood up, making some adjustments to her scanner. "I have a warp signature
bearing seven point two mark twelve. Captain, it's a Starfleet signature."
Jon crowded T'Pol, needing to look for himself, and she stepped out of the way.
"Sir, long range sensors are picking them up. They're at warp five point
three," Travis interjected, already making the appropriate course corrections
to intercept.
Jon turned to T'Pol. "Are you sure it's a Starfleet warp signature?" His
illusion that he had the fastest ship in Starfleet was quickly dissipating.
"Yes." She raised her head and eyebrow, as though she were annoyed that her
findings were being questioned.
Travis nodded and started tapping commands on his console.
"Malcolm, Em, get ready. Trip, head down to engineering and see if there isn't any more we can squeeze out of the engines."
"Sir, we have the witchling in custody and are in route to Mars colony for the harvest," the underling informed his superior.
"Were there any complications?" the scratchy question asked inside the underling's mind.
"Enterprise is in pursuit at warp five," the underling projected.
"Collateral damage is acceptable. You have the authority to deal with them by any means necessary, but, only if it is necessary. Make it look like an accident," the superior replied.
"I understand your men are restless, as I have the headaches to prove it," the superior rubbed his temples. "You would have thought that your latest mission in Klingon territory, running amok, would assuage their desire for carnage.
The underling smiled at the thought of bloodshed. "What of the witchling? A harvesting would squelch their restlessness," the underling suggested, leaning forward, resting his hands on his knees.
"Don't touch her. Just make sure to keep her blindfolded. If she's anything like her mother, she relies on sight to kill. I must confer before a decision is made. For now, she is to remain untouched," the superior ordered.
The underling performed the mental equivalent of sitting back on his haunches, trying to rest, the strain of the communication wearing on him, disappointment flooding him.
"Oh! And Commander Reynolds, I suggest you use your Starfleet training to exercise common sense and please try not to destroy Enterprise unless it is absolutely necessary. Is that understood? I don't need an incident," the superior stated pointedly.
Reynolds nodded, trying to contain his thoughts and emotions. "Yes, Admiral Basilone. Is there anything else, sir?"
Basilone remained silent, then patted the younger man on the shoulder in his mind, bending over to whisper in his ear. "Your son says hello."
The veiled threat didn't go unnoticed by either party, and the communication ended.