Our initial probe of the Stygmalian Rift is proceeding, albeit slowly. Ronnie Grau is showing an unexpected degree of caution. I suppose, in many ways, it is understandable. Ronnie's previous experiences with the Rift have been sufficient to make any reasonable being cautious. And she is, in her essentials, a reasonable being.
So, we follow her lead, and veer away from obstacles only she can see... and I make my scans, and collate my data, and it obstinately fails to make any kind of sense. Raw data we have, now, on exotic particles and energy fluxes and strange vibrations in space. But I am unable to impose any theoretical framework on it, to develop any hypothesis that would account for the observed behaviour.
It could be argued that the simple explanation is that the Rift entity is taking a hand. But this is to miss the point. It is possible to determine, scientifically, how the entity is affecting events - what means it employs, what energies it harnesses, to manipulate reality. We cannot simply declare it a god-like entity and dismiss all thoughts of enquiry as to how it operates. Even among religious believers, theologians are dedicated to finding out how, exactly, God works.
And the Rift entity, though it is enormously powerful, is not a god. Indeed, if it is actively supporting the Siohonin, and if their society functions in the manner than T'Laihhae describes... then the entity is worthy, not of our worship, but only of our contempt.
Our ships have come to a halt, hovering near some wall in space that only Ronnie can see. I am increasingly having to repress feelings of frustration as my data remains incomplete and inchoate.
Yielding to an impulse, I signal the Falcon, to see if perhaps Ronnie has any further guidance to give. It is not Ronnie who answers the hail, though, but her Andorian executive officer. "Vice Admiral Grau is resting, sir," she tells me. "We convinced her she needed some sleep."
"I see," I say. "Sleep is certainly a requirement. How is Vice Admiral Grau?"
The Andorian grimaces. "She... could be better, sir. Her residual Borg consciousness is causing problems. Something about the Rift is causing it to develop a personality of its own."
"I see." I consider this. "It might be helpful if you could transmit any non-confidential medical information relating to this. If it is associated with the Rift, this might at least provide additional data points for my analysis."
"I'll get on to that, sir. I'm sure she won't mind."
"Thank you, Commander. Tapiola out." The screen goes blank, then shows the starscape of the Rift. I sit thinking for a while.
"You should probably get some rest yourself, sir," says Twosani Dezin. She has evidently detected my perplexity with her empathic abilities.
"Yes," I say, "I believe you are correct. First, though, let me contact King Estmere." Before I rest, I would like a status report, at least, from the carrier.
Tylha Shohl's face, usually severe, is positively bleak when she appears on the screen. "My science teams are taking readings and passing the collated data to you," she says. "If we have any insights, you'll be the first to know. On current showings, I'm not too hopeful. I've got good people here, but this is not their area..."
She seems troubled. "Do you have any other cause for concern?"
"While you science types have been running yourselves ragged," Tylha says, "and Ronnie's been freaking out, I've had time to keep up with the news. And the reports from Starfleet Command don't make for cheerful reading."
"Specify," I say.
"Okeg let the Siohonin deadline expire without making any official response - buying all the time he could, I guess. Now the Siohonin war fleet is advancing in a body into Federation space. They've already either blown out or bypassed the sensor net left by Sixth Fleet, but not before we got indications that their fleet is vast. Starfleet and the KDF are scrambling for every ship and every ally we can get in response."
"To defend Tellar?" I ask.
"They're not getting as far as the Tellarite home world. Best guess is, we're going to meet them in a holding action somewhere near Lambda Cygni. But I'm worried...."
"What are your concerns?"
"We're having to commit a massive force to this. If we lose... neither Starfleet nor the KDF will have enough forces left to meet their normal strategic obligations - never mind stopping the Siohonin." Her voice is increasingly bleak. "It looks like... if we don't stop them now, we don't stop them at all."
It is, at the very least, a disturbing thought to sleep on.
---
It is only a few hours later when I am awakened. As per my standing instructions, the communications officer puts the call from the Falcon directly through to my quarters.
"Wake up, ginger-nut," says Ronnie Grau. Her face is a ghastly sight, even more cadaverous than it normally is. "Shake a leg, rise and shine. We got company."
"Specify," I say, as I clamber out of bed.
"Wish I could. Something with a big warp signature just headed into the Rift. It's nothing familiar, so my guess is, bad guys."
"A Siohonin warship, travelling in advance of their main fleet?" I dress hastily.
"You got it. That's the safest bet, at least. I don't know anyone else who might be interested in the Rift, anyway."
"I see." I shrug into my uniform tunic. Irrationally, I feel more composed, now. "Do you intend to move towards it, or away from it?"
"Generally speaking, towards. We don't learn anything, running away. Besides, it's kind of not my style."
So I had gathered. "Transmit relevant information to my bridge, please. I will join them shortly."
It is not my policy to run - it may cause unnecessary alarm among the crew - but I certainly reach the bridge at a fast walk. The tactical display is live on the main screen when I arrive, and a conference call with Falcon and King Estmere has been set up. I make a mental note to commend communications appropriately for their efficiency.
"We don't have very good reads on the Siohonin capital ships," Tylha is saying, "but what we've got is consistent with that warp signature out there."
"OK," says Ronnie, "OK, so... it'll be loaded for bear, I guess. Siohonin special weapons out the wazoo, wherever the Siohonin keep their wazoos. So, what I'm thinking is, we need to bracket it between us. Any one of us has enough oomph to take out a single Siohonin ship, and they can't have special weapons going in all directions at once. Or at least, if they can, then all bets are off."
"Even so," I say, "we need to evolve a strategy to minimize the risks."
"Already got one," says Ronnie. "Damn, I'm good. The Siohonin are after me, right? We know that much. Therefore, they can't risk destroying the Falcon. Therefore, Falcon goes in on their forward arc, and you two hit it from flank and rear. If we can - and hey, I'm an optimist, I say we can - we try to disable it and take some prisoners. Sound good to you guys?"
"If we can," says Tylha. "But we can't take too many risks - they might have additional powers from the entity, here in the Rift itself."
"So are you saying we should run?"
"I'm saying," says Tylha, "that we keep our fingers on the triggers, ready to destroy that ship if we need to. Yes, it would be nice to have some prisoners, and some answers. Just not at too high a cost, that's all."
"OK, point," says Ronnie. "Look, I'm sketching in a probable course on the tac map. It's only a rough sketch, because the glowy whatevers out there are moving, slowly, and I do not want to chance running into one -" She winces. "Sorry. Never mind."
Her Borg half, Two of Twelve, is evidently continuing to cause difficulties. I study the course projections on the screen. "You are assuming that the suspect vessel will continue on its current heading."
"We got to start with some assumptions somewhere. Anyway, if he's coming for me, chances are good he'll let me come to him, right?"
"He's already slowed to sublight speeds," says Tylha. "Heading... more or less straight towards us. Not that he necessarily knows it's us - we might well be the only interesting thing on his sensors. Siohonin science sensors don't seem to be any too good."
"Hmm," says Ronnie, "now, that is interesting. There are glowies between him and us... either he can't see them, or he can see them and knows they won't bother him. Which shall it be, Passworthy? One of them's better for us than the other."
"We have no direct knowledge," I point out, "that the - glowies - will have any adverse effect on us"
"Yeah," says Ronnie, "and I aim to keep things that way. Let little Ronnie steer you straight, guys, and she will keep you from tangling with any invisible alien energy fields, OK? Now let's move."
The android Pascale has the helm, and she moves us out with nerveless machine efficiency. The Falcon and the King Estmere dwindle in the distance as they move on divergent courses, through the complex network of invisible shapes that only Ronnie can see. The alien ship is a brilliant, enigmatic dot on my sensors. I refuse to think of it as an enemy ship. Not yet. Not without proof.
Long-range sensors construct a visual profile. The ship is a massive cylinder, more than half a kilometre long, with an immense domed prow and four warp nacelles in cruciform arrangement. Visually, it conforms to what we know of the Siohonin warships. Reluctantly, I concede: there is proof. This is the enemy.
"Hail coming in on subspace," reports the communications ensign.
"On screen. And patch in Falcon and King Estmere."
The viewscreen goes blank, and then a new scene appears on it. It shows a ship's bridge, of unfamiliar construction, but not very dissimilar from several Klingon designs. A man is seated on a command chair at the bridge's centre. He is obviously elderly, with wild grey hair and beard, and a pair of immense horns, cracked and seamed with age, growing from his head. He wears robes of black and white and red, with the symbol of a golden flame on his chest. A similar symbol is on the tip of the rod he holds in his right hand.
He stands. "Are there no males I can speak with?" he demands, in an unexpectedly strong and resonant voice.
"I am Vice Admiral T'Pia, currently commanding the Federation starship USS Tapiola," I say. "My colleagues and I represent the most senior Starfleet officers available at present. Please identify yourself."
"A female Admiral. Well, the antics of the unbelievers should not surprise me, I suppose. I am Enteskilen Mur, Theocrat of the Siohonin and High Priest of the one true god, Sebreac Tharr, aboard the Theocracy warship Warhammer."
"I see," I say. "Then you are responsible for hostile acts against Federation citizens. Please stand down, surrender your vessel, and prepare to be taken into custody."
He laughs at that, long and loudly. "Oh, you are priceless," he says. "Perhaps I will keep you, as a pet. Where is Veronika Grau?"
"Right here," says Ronnie's voice, "coming at you from the front. If you think T'Pia's demand for surrender is funny, wait till you get a load of my tetryon banks. You'll just die laughing."
"Veronika Grau." Mur lifts up his shaggy grey head, and his eyes shine with some sort of desire. "You are to surrender yourself to me. Now."
"You're not even going to buy me dinner first? Besides, you're not my type," says Ronnie.
"Laugh while you may, Veronika Grau. You will surrender yourself."
The tactical display shows that Ronnie's plan, so far, seems to be working. The Warhammer is bracketed neatly between Tapiola, Falcon and King Estmere. All three ships will be within weapons range in less than a minute. It is difficult to see how Mur can hope to prevail, even with the Siohonin weapons.
"Red alert," I order.
"Oh." Mur has overheard me. "The amusing Vulcan is making a noise. Still... I must consider this situation. Grau cannot surrender herself if she is dead... and I have decided to keep the amusing Vulcan... so...."
Weapons range.
And the Warhammer spins in place, its speed of reaction unbelievable in so large a ship, and something spills from the domed structure at its prow. It is a sparkling blur, that corrupts and shatters our sensor images - the interference from what we now know to be the Siohonin warp cannon.
When the interference clears, King Estmere is gone.
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