"Well," I say, looking around at the ruins, "you cannot really ban research, in any case. Fields of study overlap... something quite innocuous may suddenly give insights into forbidden areas... and prohibiting some avenues of exploration actually draws some people towards them."
"If protomatter generation is outlawed, only outlaws will have protomatter generators?" says Joaj. She is inspecting one of the wrecked Hierarchy devices, her antennae twitching and quivering as she peers into the burned-out interior.
"Something like that." I look moodily at the wreckage. Protomatter, a protean substance, unfixed at the sub-chromodynamic level, in theory transmutable into anything - it is a tempting short cut for any number of scientific research projects. The problem, once the protomatter is transmuted, is stabilizing it and getting it to retain its new form. So far, the problem has proven... intractable. The failures take many different forms, but they are always dramatic.
So, my first official mission in the Delta Quadrant proves to be a grim one. The Hierarchy research station is positioned in empty space, seven light years from the nearest star, twenty from the Jenolan Dyson sphere. It is - or was - an early effort at collaboration with the Hierarchy, following up on the alliance of desperation against the Vaadwaur, attempting to usher in a new era of understanding with our new allies - the Hierarchy is still a poorly understood body....
Bodies. I look at the corpses littering the floor. The Andorian medic, Thales Islim, is kneeling beside one, scanning with his tricorder, his clean-cut features intent. I walk over to him. "What have you found?"
"What?" Thales looks up. "Oh. Well, they're dead, for a start...."
"I can see that much," I say patiently. "How did they die?"
"A number of different ways." Thales stands up, points to the rotund hairless form of the Hierarchy scientist. "This one, for instance, seems to have spontaneously developed multiple reduplicated DNA strands in his cells... I'm reading genetic material from twelve different species, at least three of them vegetable." I must look puzzled, for Thales adds, "Oh, the biochemical imbalances killed him long before any gross physical changes could take place. That one over there, on the other hand -" he indicates another still, contorted shape "- seems to have adapted, instantaneously, to breathe carbon instead of oxygen."
"But carbon is not a gas," I say.
"That was, rather, his problem," says Thales.
"Carbon is not a gas, at this temperature, at the moment," says Joaj, emerging from the bowels of the ruined generator. "But I'm not sure I'd answer for anything, just now. The structure of this station is compromised from the sub-atomic level up. I think the protomatter has all been consumed in the... reaction, whatever you want to call it. But this place is still not safe - a long way from it, in fact."
I touch my combadge. "M'eioi to Timor. Confirm you have transporter lock on the away team."
"Confirmed." The Vulcan engineer Saaral's voice; he is competent. "We can retrieve you at any sign of an emergency."
"Very well. We will document as much as we can. Prepare a forensic download of the station's computers - they'll probably be damaged, so run reconstruction and de-corruption algorithms as far as we can. And we will retrieve the bodies, to be returned for... well, whatever rites the Hierarchy has."
Thales pulls a face. "Some of them are definitely going to be closed casket jobs," he says.
"I don't doubt it," I say. "We can confirm there were no survivors?"
"Some of them lasted a few minutes longer than others, that's all." The Andorian's face, like his humour, is getting bleaker.
"All right. Let's do this, then let's get out of here and scuttle this station as a menace to navigation. Saaral, get me Research Manager Itoqual on subspace, he's going to need to know what's happened to his balance sheet." The Hierarchy is worse than the Ferengi in that respect. The Ferengi are bandits... the Hierarchy are accountants.
"Yes, sir," says Saaral's voice. "Sir - something of which you should be aware. We have a sensor contact at extreme range. Unidentified as yet, but indications are that it is approaching the station."
I frown. "Very well. Beam me back aboard, and we'll plan an intercept course." I turn to Joaj and Thales. "I've no idea what this might be, but you'd better finish up here as fast as possible."
"Yes, sir," says Joaj.
"I'll need body bags," says Thales.
---
By the time I reach the Timor's bridge, the unknown contact has been identified. "Hazari?" I ask.
Marya Kothe nods. "Frigate-class vessel... I expect there will be another close by, within easy subspace call." It is Hazari tactical doctrine - they travel in pairs.
I settle into the centre seat. "What do they want? Hail them."
"Hailing," says Sumal Jetuz. "I have a response."
"On screen." The scaly impassive features of a Hazari fill the main viewer. "This is Admiral M'eioi aboard the USS Timor," I say. "How can we assist you?"
The Hazari pauses for an instant, then snaps, "What's an Alpha Quadrant ship doing here?"
"This station is a joint venture between the Hierarchy and the Federation," I say patiently. "We responded to a distress signal. What's your business here, come to that?"
"I have a contract," says the Hazari. "With Station Director Wuquen, for his personal protection. We received a distress call, too. What's happened here?"
"Protomatter escape," I say. The Hazari's face gives little away, but I fancy I see the blunt beak-like mouth tighten a little. "I'm afraid your contract is... void, I guess."
"I want confirmation," says the Hazari. "I'd prefer to speak to Station Director Wuquen. Now."
I sigh. "Mr. Jetuz, patch in Dr. Islim aboard the station." Sumal nods briskly, touches his console, and after a moment the screen splits to show Thales's face as well. "Doctor, please confirm the status of Station Director Wuquen. This Hazari... gentleman... wants to speak to him."
"Oh, well, that won't be a problem," says Thales.
"It won't?" I am nonplussed.
"Not at all. Wuquen suffered total physical collapse during the protomatter incident. But we can pour him into a bathtub, and the Hazari can speak to him as much as he likes. Might be disappointed if he expects any answers, of course."
The Hazari's head lifts, and his little eyes glitter in an ugly way. "You'll have to excuse my doctor," I say. "The station's staff died in some... horrible... ways, and the stress is clearly getting to him."
Thales's face relaxes slightly. "Sorry, sir. I guess you're right. I'll transmit my post-mortem findings and all the identification I could gather. Will that help?"
"It will... have to be enough. Protomatter escape," the Hazari says glumly.
"I know how you people feel about your contracts," I say, "but there was no way you could protect Wuquen against that."
"No," says the Hazari, "no.... All right. Transmit all the relevant details. So I can be sure."
I'm tempted to challenge him - this Hazari arrogance, these demands. But it will do no harm for the truth to be known, and if he's really failed in a contract, he will feel the failure deeply. There's nothing to be gained from a further conflict, now. "I'll make sure you have all the requisite data. For form's sake, please send me confirmation of your contract arrangements. Just so our records are complete."
He nods. "That's... fair enough. I'll transmit them now."
For a little while, there is nothing but the flickering of graphs on my console, as data flashes between ourselves, the station, and the Hazari ship. Then, the Hazari speaks. "Well. That's that, then. I'll be leaving now." The screen goes blank.
"You're welcome," Marya mutters.
"Different cultures," I say. "And he must be distressed by his failure.... Still. Transmit all details of ship and contract to Delta Command, maybe Intelligence will find a use for it." I watch the screen as the winged arrowhead shape of the Hazari ship turns sharply, points itself away from us, and suddenly flashes and zooms off into warp.
I sit, pensively, for a while, mulling things over. The station's manager had an independent contract for Hazari protection? Why? The only plausible answer is one I don't like at all - that he was planning on some private enterprise of his own with the station's research, and wanted armed backup as a consequence. I think the forensic analysis of the station's records is going to be a high priority....
"Commander Joaj calling from the station," Sumal reports. "Downloading and forensic scans are complete, and Dr. Islim has accounted for and recovered all the bodies. They're finished over there, sir. And Research Manager Itoqual is calling from the Hierarchy central authority -"
"All right. Beam up the away teams and all requisite material. And put the Research Manager through."
The lumpy brown face of the Hierarchy official appears on the viewscreen. "Is it true?" he asks. "The station is... no longer viable?"
"Staff were killed, all equipment wrecked by the protomatter escape," I tell him. "My engineer confirms that the station itself must be regarded as structurally unsound. It's a total loss, I'm afraid, Manager Itoqual." I pause, and add, "You understand, now, the Federation's reluctance to engage in... certain lines of research."
"We stuck strictly to the letter of the guidelines," Itoqual says. "High-energy subquantum physics research. By any reasonable definition -"
"Quite," I say. "But subsequent funding from the Federation Council is likely to depend on a more exact definition, in future. We've recovered as much as we can of the station's data, and we'll transmit it to you, in accordance with the agreement." Another pause. "We also recovered the bodies of the station's staff. We can return them to you for burial or - whatever customs are appropriate - if that is your wish."
"Will there be a charge?"
I shake my head. "No charge. You should make the relatives aware, though, that the protomatter incident left some of the bodies in a distressing condition."
"Distress is hard to quantify financially. But I'll make a note of that." He heaves a sigh, his fleshy body quivering. "I hope that the Federation is not dissuaded entirely from... potentially profitable joint ventures."
"The Federation remains willing to forge alliances and form friendships," I tell him. He makes my flesh creep... but the essence of diplomacy lies in dealing with people you don't like. And I represent the Federation - I have to be a diplomat.
"This loss will not make our quarterly figures look any healthier," Itoqual says. "And I suppose there will be further costs for the disposal of the station itself, if it is as unsound as you say."
The station is a simple affair of small, cheap work and habitation modules bolted to a frame... Itoqual probably wants to salvage parts of it for re-use on other projects. But the protomatter contamination makes that inadvisable, to say the least. I touch the intercom panel. "Transporter room. Have we recovered all personnel and material?"
"Everyone and everything is safely aboard, sir."
"Excellent. Commander Kothe. The abandoned station is now no more than a navigational hazard. Target it, and engage the singularity projector."
Itoqual's round face registers astonishment. "We should waste no time," I tell him.
"Singularity projector engaged. Firing," Marya reports. A faint whine from the EPS system, a slight shudder as the projector fires. "Singularity running...."
"On screen."
The viewer shows the swirling bolt of twisted light, shows it streaking into the abandoned station... shows the structure implode into the green-black vortex of the singularity's collapse. When the screen clears, there is nothing left but a rapidly fading glow of ionized particles.
"Navigational hazard... removed," I say with some satisfaction. "For this, too, Manager Itoqual, we'll make no charge."
---
There are details to be dealt with, of course - the bodies, for one. I retire to my ready room to deal with the paperwork. I suppose, I think somewhat sourly, the paperwork comes with the rank, too....
I'm finishing the first draft of my report to Delta Command when the door chimes. "Come."
Sumal Jetuz enters. The carefully groomed Betazoid seems... skittish, somehow. "We have a communication, sir."
"What is it?"
"A Klingon vessel requesting help with a scientific problem. Apparently, some sort of plague hit a Kobali colony world, and they've not been able to identify the agent. They're on subspace right now -"
I stand up. "Well, with the resources of the Timor, that shouldn't be a problem." I stride to the door. For a moment, Sumal looks for all the world as though he wants to stop me. I look at him quizzically. "Is something the matter?"
"Ah, no, sir, it's just - well, the Klingon commander -"
"Well, let me take a look at them." I brush past him, wondering at his obvious agitation, and step onto the bridge, where the viewscreen shows the Klingon captain's face -
And I stop.
It might almost be my own face - almost. But it is midnight blue, instead of black, with a stripe of lighter blue across the eyes, and the ears and nose are adorned with barbaric jewelry, and beneath the upper lip, two monstrous fangs curve down.
Ferasan.
No comments:
Post a Comment