Noonday Sun 32

Dyegh remained silent for some time after T'Pia left. He did not move from where he sat.

His expression did not change, nor his position, but, eventually, he slept. And, while he slept, the thoughts passing through his multi-cameral brain began to escape him, in a low, continuous muttering.

"… help, yes, they may help, they have convinced Siffaith of their good intentions, at least... good intentions... intentions... never work out quite as planned... plans... they have plans, I have plans...."

The muttering paused for a while, then resumed.

"… restore the Land, not an easy job, maybe too much for one person... but with their help, restore the control systems, re-energize the sun... and maybe more... do they need to know about more?... the control runs are broken, the subspace jumpers are inactive... they burned them out, at the control station, the one near the sun... but it is only a thing... the Land was made to move, subspace jump, travel anywhere... controls are broken... but anything can be fixed, given time...."

Noonday Sun 31

T'Pia

Again, I am on the surface of the sphere; again, a vast shadow blots out the sun.

There are not a few vessels to do that - several Republic Scimitars are running a patrol pattern around the spire, and Starfleet and KDF ships are in attendance too. This shadow, though, is cast by the huge, angular bulk of a Tholian Recluse carrier, coming to a halt over the wreck of the Tapiola.

Faint blue beams reach down from the carrier, and the Tapiola shudders, sending ripples running out over the surface of the artificial sea. The tractor beams brighten and intensify, and the wave surge higher in response, and slowly, painfully, the listing hulk of the Tapiola rises out of the sea. Water pours from her ravaged starboard blade, a cascade that roars and foams into the waves below.

The tall, lanky Andorian beside me whistles through her teeth. "You brought her in to a soft landing in that condition?" says Tylha Shohl. "I should rub your head for good luck or something."

"I took the only course of action that presented itself."

"Yes, of course." Tylha shakes her head. "You did a hell of a job, though."

The first time I met Tylha Shohl in person, I was composed and correct in full uniform, and she was battered, grimy, and covered in a foul-smelling tellurium compound. Our positions are very nearly reversed, today. I am bruised, shaken, suffering from multiple minor abrasions, and desperately weary; my uniform is scuffed and torn, and there is a general-issue combadge at my chest - something which I find oddly disquieting. "What is your preliminary assessment?" I ask her.

The torrent of water from the ship has slowed to an intermittent dripping and pattering. Tylha squints up at her, antennae twitching. "Lots of stuff to do," she says. "That big hole, and the blown out converter, won't be nearly as much an issue as the distributed damage to the EPS grid... and Tholian ship architecture, well, it's got challenges all its own. But we'll see." Her face breaks briefly into a lopsided smile. "This is the sort of thing Experimental Engineering is meant to be good at, after all."

"I am glad to leave the ship in capable hands," I say. "I must go, now. There are matters I must attend to."

She touches my arm. "You're sure you're all right?" she asks. "It sounds like you had a pretty rough ride."

"Thank you for your concern. I will recover." I meet the gaze of her ice-blue eyes. She knows that, were I human, or Andorian, I would welcome the offer of sympathy, of friendship, that she makes. She knows, too, that I am Vulcan, and I cannot. She has the grace to accept this. It is kind of her.

Above us, the sun comes out again, as King Estmere carries Tapiola gently away.

I make my way along the shoreline, to the nearest working transport station. We have managed to restore much of the local transporter network... and I have a destination in mind. I have questions to ask... and, I think, apologies to make.

---

The room at the top of the spire shows evidence of hasty repair work, and there are still many consoles which are dark, dead, non-operational. I make my way between them, to where a robed figure sits huddled before a blank screen.

"Are you Dyegh?" I ask. "I am T'Pia."

The Solanae turns. Huge eyes in a rigid mask-like face regard me from under a hood. "I am Dyegh, yes." The translated voice sounds sad, resigned.

I kneel down on the deck beside him. "I wished to thank you for your efforts," I say. "I understand from my colleague M'eioi that you made a considerable personal sacrifice in destroying the Voth ship, and thereby saving my life and my crew's. I wished you to know that it is appreciated."

"I... suppose I am glad to know that," says Dyegh.

"Your colleague Siffaith, I gather, is meeting with Federation and Joint Command diplomats to form some preliminary understandings between our people. Are you not concerned to be a part of that?"

"No," says Dyegh, "not really. Siffaith is better with - people - than I am. It is best left to him. He has energy, he has intellectual curiosity - he will learn, and adapt. Perhaps in ways I cannot."

"I hope he will be successful in reaching an agreement. It is a difficult situation - by the laws of my people, the entire sphere should be, in effect, your people's property. However, there are others to be considered, and a more - complex - process of negotiation must ensue." The sphere is vital to our operations in the Delta Quadrant - and the Klingons and the Republic have their own interests, and no Prime Directive to constrain them.

"That matters much less to me than you might think," says Dyegh. He gestures towards the open windows with one claw-like hand. "Look at it! What one person, what one species, could own something like that? Even the old gods considered it as a home for a multitude of their servant cultures, not just my own Progenitors. No, the Land is roomy enough for us, and for you, and for many others besides. Even including the Voth, if they should ever come to their senses and give up their claim to the whole of it. The Land was meant for many peoples -" He makes a noise that the translator interprets as a sigh. "My only hope was... to restore it to its full glory."

"I gather you were planning, somehow, to reactivate the central star."

"It is possible," says Dyegh. "A massive infusion of hydrogen, an accompanying blast of energy to reinitialize the full solar phoenix reaction - but it had to be regulated, carefully. No sense in simply blasting fresh fuel in, destabilizing the sun, turning it into a nova.... The Home contains control devices that would enable me to manage the process. Or it did. So much is wrecked, now. And I did not fully understand all its workings, in any case. I tried, I was learning...."

"I will admit that I am perplexed. Your people were surviving without difficulty - and you are not, physiologically, well adapted even for the levels of illumination already prevalent here -"

"It would have restored the Land to its full function, its full power. One can always shelter from the sunlight."

"I see." I pause for a moment to consider. "In many ways, it is a noble, even an altruistic, vision. It might be possible for us to help you achieve it."

Dyegh leans towards me, his huge eyes suddenly intent. "And why would you do that?"

"Many possible reasons. We would learn much about the mechanisms and technologies of the sphere. We would gain a better understanding of your people, which might help in establishing meaningful contact with your remote cousins in subspace. And, of course, we would prefer to have some hand in managing such a project ourselves, for the sake of safety, if nothing else." I have reviewed the parameters of Dyegh's final intervention; he came perilously close to destabilizing the main gravitic anchors which neutralize the central sun's gravity - without which, everything on the interior of the sphere would fall into the sun. It is tactful not to draw his attention to this, at this moment.

"It is a dream," says Dyegh. "It seems, for now, an impossible dream."

"The Federation," I say, "was largely founded by people coming together to realize their dreams." I rise to my feet. "I will leave you to consider this. It is, of course, only one of many possibilities."

"Yes," says Dyegh, "many possibilities."

"In any case, I came here principally to thank you for your efforts. I will leave now."

"Yes," says Dyegh. He says nothing else, and I turn and go.

Noonday Sun 30

M'eioi

The control room looks like a starship's bridge after a battle. Wrecked consoles are sparking and sputtering, and the air is full of smoke. Dyegh, at least, warned us about the force-field floors - they have winked out, and I can look down, unobstructed, into an abyss filled with machines, and see fires glowing deep down below.

Dyegh is hunched over his controls, quivering and saying something the universal translator won't process. Siffaith and Tyonovon are holding on to each other beside another console. Pearl is already working at a third. I steel myself, and leap across the gap to join her.

"Massive power surges," she says, "and... I think the last one was a warp core breach."

I swallow, hard. "The Tempest?"

She shakes her head. "No, sir. The Gendratis. I still have Tempest on positive track."

I close my eyes for a moment and sigh with relief. "Try to get a line to them. We're going to need help."

"I am engaging repair systems," Siffaith calls to me, unexpectedly. "There is much damage, but... the Home is stable. For the present, at least."

I leave Pearl to work, leap across the gap to join Siffaith. "What about your people?" I ask. "How badly were they hit?"

"No casualties. The - failures - all took place in machinery spaces. Our people are in secure accommodation areas. The force shields are on emergency backup, but they have held." Siffaith studies the console screen. "And I am still reading your ship, the Timor."

And that comes as an immense relief. "We'll need a line to them, too. How bad is the damage? What did Dyegh do?"

"Overloads," Dyegh's voice replies. "So much power - I diverted much of it to the accumulator banks, but the conduits themselves - overloaded. Secondary damage to the grid emitters, to the central modulators - ach! So much damage - it will take thousands of hours to repair, if it can be done at all...."

"How do you overload a superconducting conduit?" Pearl asks.

"At the power densities we're talking here, it sets up induction effects in the air around it," I say abstractedly, studying the readouts - the working readouts. "The air whiffs into plasma, and that, in turn, heats up and degrades the superconductor. Really, those power channels should be evacuated and sealed -"

"The vacuum seals degraded," says Dyegh. "Everything degrades - time, time is the enemy - and I am further back now than I was when I began -"

His voice sounds broken. "I'm sorry," I say. "If we can help - if you want our help -"

"There will be much to discuss, I think," says Siffaith.

There is a sudden sensation - not so much a sound, more a feeling, like a door slamming somewhere nearby, beneath us. I look down. The force field floors are active again. I shoot a questioning glance at Siffaith, then realize he can't read my expressions, any more than I can read his. "The floors are back," I say.

"Power systems are recircuiting. Auto-repairs are initiating - and fire suppression is online. The Home will survive, it will even heal itself."

"It always has, before," Tyonovon adds. "But - but you were right, Siffaith. We need to know how to fix things. How to deal with - problems."

Dyegh makes a noise. "So," he says, "I have driven one more of the People to question things, to learn... if this is all I can accomplish, I must learn to be content with that...."

"I think," says Siffaith, "that you have already accomplished much, Dyegh. Perhaps not what you meant to, but...." He and Tyonovon walk over the glassy force field to where Dyegh hunches over his console. I decide to leave them to it. I walk over to Pearl.

"Comms are coming back online," she says. "I have a data line to the Tempest, we're exchanging telemetry. Looks like they're fine." She straightens up, turns to face me, her metal eyes looking - intent, somehow. "I was wondering something, sir."

"What?"

She gestures at the Solanae where they huddle in a group. "Whether you'd have ordered me to use that gun. To threaten them. Make them cooperate."

What happened to the guns? Probably they fell into the interior of the spire when the floors winked out. "Of course not," I say.

She nods. "Commodore Fallon would have."

I snort. "It would have been the wrong thing to do. And it wouldn't have worked."

"And I wouldn't have done it. I would have refused an order like that. After which -" She shrugs. "Commodore Fallon would probably have had me returned, as defective equipment."

"You're not just equipment. And you're anything but defective." A thought strikes me. "Androids like you are scarce - a very limited resource. Personnel Division usually allocates only one to a ship, if that."

"I was assigned to the Tempest."

"Currently, that's T'Pia's command. De facto. And she has an android officer, already. Want to come and work for me, instead?"

"You're requisitioning me, sir?"

I look her straight in those metal eyes. "I'm asking you."

She nods, slowly. "I think I might like that, sir." Then she turns, swiftly, to look at the console. Something has caught her attention. I peer over her shoulder. "That's interesting."

"What is it?" I ask.

"Short range general hail. Broad frequency. Someone wants attention."

I grin. "I think I can guess who. Let's answer it."

"Sir?" She looks puzzled, but her fingers fly over the console interface, setting it up.

A panel lights up in midair, flickers for a moment, then displays a face - a dark, scaled face, with blue-green implants concealing the eyes. A voice accompanies it. "- calling any Voth station, requesting a status report. I repeat. This is Karzis -" He stops. Evidently, my face has come up on his screen, now.

"Hello again," I say. "I gather you're trying to raise your ship. Sorry, but that last big bang was its warp core going up. Our ships are just fine, though - well, the Tempest is a bit crowded, I guess. Crowded with highly trained, fully equipped Starfleet personnel, who're probably quite motivated to deal with the remaining Voth forces on this spire." I grin at him - or, at least, I bare my teeth. "So let's talk about you surrendering. Can we skip all the bluster about not taking orders from mammals? Because from where I'm sitting, I don't see you've got much choice."

Noonday Sun 29

T'Pia

Tempest rocks, then steadies again. Twosani's eyes are dark holes in a white face. "What happened?" she asks, blankly.

I move to the main science console; the Rigelian officer manning it stands aside. "Attempting to analyse now," I say.

The flash of darkness lasted less than a second - but for night to fall, even for so brief a span, in the eternal noon of the sphere is... unprecedented. I study the readouts and the visuals, and I begin to see how it was done... and at what cost.

Where the Voth ship was, there is now a seething sphere of whiteness, churning and glimmering with a kind of iridescence, at least three kilometres in diameter. Behind it, the spire still stands - but smoke and flames are pouring from several openings in its surface. New openings. There have been explosions within the spire - more burned-out sections, like the one I found, only worse. I can only hope none of the damage was to inhabited areas, and that the spire's self-repair systems can cope.

"Whatever they did," I muse aloud, "it involved channelling the entire energy output of the sun. For a brief period only, but, still, it is a considerable amount of energy."

"What is that thing?" Twosani asks. "It looks like it's.... Is it shrinking?"

"The diameter is visibly reducing," I say. Parts of the white sphere are breaking away, flying off as fragments into the air of the sphere... but that is not the only factor in operation here. I examine the readings from Tempest's sensors. They are... intriguing.

"Fascinating," I say, and raise one eyebrow.

"I think I see something," says Twosani. "Inside the - cloud. Or whatever it is. There's something solid -"

"No," I say, absent-mindedly, as I continue to analyze the data, "not exactly solid."

"It's the Bulwark," Twosani says in a suddenly hopeless voice. "It's coming out of the cloud - it looks like it's still intact -" She stops. Her expression becomes puzzled.

The Voth ship becomes clearly visible as the white substance shatters and swirls away - but it, too, gleams with a strange iridescence, and it takes no action of any kind. "Fascinating," I say again.

"Sir, what happened?" Twosani asks.

"Intense tetryon bombardment. The Voth used it as the basis for a biolytic field... the Solanae have apparently not bothered with that elaboration. Tetryon fields suppress energy - to put matters in simplistic terms. And this one was powered with at least a substantial fraction of the output of a small sun."

Twosani still looks baffled. "So what -?"

"Essentially, the Voth ship and the air around it were reduced in temperature to absolute zero, and subjected to several other energetic factors. A precise analysis will no doubt yield interesting data. The result, ultimately, was to force a phase change on all the material within the field. A phase change we have not previously observed on the scale of actual physical objects." I nod towards the shimmering shape on the screen. "That is no longer a solid object. It is a great deal colder than any solid could possibly be. I believe it to be a fermionic condensate. Or something very similar."

"Fermionic -?" Twosani's brow furrows in thought. "Wouldn't that be... superfluid, or something?"

"One might expect that. I think, though, that the matter, in this state, interacts so weakly with the world around it that there is no disruption of its gross physical structure. There are other factors at work...." I study the console, making sure that every detail is being recorded for future analysis. "Fascinating," I say, once again.

"The Voth," says Twosani. "The Voth are... dead?"

"Oh, yes," I assure her. "Just as quickly as they killed the crew of the Tempest. No possible metabolic functions could take place in that condition."

"So... what happens now?"

"On a practical level, we must contact Admiral M'eioi and arrange for the capture of any remaining Voth forces on the spire. And we should call Joint Command and obtain support. I am sure Subcommander Kaol has by now assembled a battle fleet that he is anxious to unleash. As for that -" I indicate the dead ship on the screen "- we should have no concerns. Random interactions with the normal matter of the air will gradually - warm it, I suppose - until it resumes a normal solid phase. The super-frozen air around it, as we have seen, has already been scattered... I suppose it might constitute a hazard, while it remains in this condition. I would not, personally, care to be caught in that... blizzard."

"And the ship itself?"

"I expect it will resume a more normal material state gradually, diffusing into the surrounding atmosphere one molecule at a time, due to random molecular interactions. It will be interesting to see how long the process takes -"

The viewscreen abruptly fills with an eye-searing white glare. Alarms sound. Seconds pass, and then the Tempest rocks and surges, caught in a blast wave far mightier than her namesake. Status lights flash yellow and red on the deflectors and the inertial dampers, and I cling on to the console as the ship bucks and plunges.

We ride it out, though, and she steadies. I wipe my eyes, and look at the viewscreen. I can see the spire, now, through the slowly cooling fireball. "I forgot a detail," I say ruefully. "Some of those random molecular interactions involved the antimatter in the ship's warp core. And, of course, once even one molecule of normal matter came into contact with that, it precipitated a chain reaction. Among other things, it supplied sufficient enthalpy for any number of phase changes. So much for the fermionic condensate." I shake my head. "Try to raise Admiral M'eioi. We must ascertain the state of affairs within the spire."

Noonday Sun 28

M'eioi

One of the Solanae - Siffaith, I think - has opened a row of windows along one wall of the control room. They let in the thin, cold air from outside, and the never-changing sunlight. The fresh air, at least, is welcome, as we hunch over the consoles and work.

"They are definitely pulling back," says Siffaith. "I do not understand why. They were holding their own against the swarmers -"

"I think I know," I say. On the screen, we can see the dots marking the positions of Voth units. They are moving - little dots of light, flowing down corridors like blood cells in capillaries. And, when they get to some points on the map, they wink out in brief flares of energy. They are being transported out, from places where the Voth have set up pattern enhancers and can use transporters safely.

"They're returning to the ship," says Pearl.

"Yes." I straighten up, ease my aching back, then move to another console.

"But why?" asks Tyonovon. "Have we - have we won? Are they giving up?"

"I wish," I mutter. I touch the controls, watch images and data flash across the screen. It doesn't tell me anything I don't already know. "The battleship is powering up drives. It'll undock shortly. We've done them some damage, inflicted some casualties... enough that they have to pull some of their forces back, if they're going to man the ship effectively."

The Bulwark is on the move. And its target is obvious, too. The Tempest is practically down on the deck, after diving to retrieve T'Pia; she is climbing out of the denser atmosphere, but slowly, running on thrusters alone.

"If they can complete repairs to the impulse drive -" I begin.

"They can't use it from there," Pearl says. "Aerodynamic compensation is compromised. If they fire up the impulse engines, that low down, without it, it'll be like running the ship straight into a wall."

Operating the ships in the sphere's atmosphere has always been a problem. With her systems shot to pieces by the destruction of her bio-neural controls, Tempest has lost the second-by-second force-field adjustments that would let her use her impulse drive in atmosphere. She could, of course, just tune her main deflectors up to full, and rely on brute force to push air molecules around her - except that the damaged deflectors are not capable of that either.

Pearl leans forward, touches the display, marks out a circle with a single precise gesture. "If she can get past that line before the Gendratis gets under way," she says, "she might stand a chance of getting to thinner air, and being able to cut and run. Otherwise -"

It's a faint hope. The Voth ship is faster than a ship that size ought to be. At full strength, Tempest should be able to outrun it, even so - but Tempest is very far from full strength.

"Patch our tactical telemetry and map data through to Tempest," I tell Pearl. "She might be able to keep the spire, or some of the industrial towers, between her and the Voth...."

The android nods, and moves to another console. I reach for my combadge, to call T'Pia - then stop. She will already know everything I can tell her, and she doesn't need any distractions right now. I could call the Timor, send her out to support the Tempest - but she would take too long, traversing the exit tube, and she couldn't take on a Bulwark in any case. Instead, I turn to Siffaith. "What about us? Is there anything we can do? The spire has projectors for all sorts of energy fields, right?"

I still can't read any expression on the Solanae's insectile faces. Siffaith's huge eyes are turned towards mine. "We have projection systems, yes. The Voth themselves subverted them, to create their biolytic field. But - I do not know how to use them. Perhaps Dyegh -"

I swivel round, to look at where Dyegh sits, huddled in his robe, before a control panel. He raises his head and looks towards us at the mention of his name.

"Is there anything you can do?" I demand.

He seems to withdraw into his hooded robe. "I know the Home's systems," he says. "I understand what the Voth did, when they disrupted my work. Yes, I know. There was damage done, though - and my power reserves, they were depleted - I would have to think -"

I look away from him, back to the map on the screen, back to the point of light that represents the Tempest. It is a very long way from the circle Pearl has drawn.

"Data feed established," the android says. "Getting telemetry from Tempest in reply - we'll be able to see how they're doing, at least." She comes to stand beside me, looking at the map. "I don't know if they can -"

She stops. She raises her right hand, extends her forefinger, aims it at a point on the map. "That's it. Gendratis has undocked."

I swallow, hard. "And the Tempest -?"

"All her possible routes, now, will bring her within the Voth's engagement range. Maybe she can play hide and seek among the towers for a few minutes, but -"

The Bulwark is just a tiny, tiny dot, on the map. But in reality, it is a mile-long armoured bulk, armed with weapons that could blast a hole right through the sphere and out into space. The wounded Tempest stands no chance. "Is there anything we can do?"

"Dyegh," says Siffaith, "if you can help -"

"Of course I can help!" Dyegh's translated voice is high and shrill. "This is the Home! It was built by the Progenitors to wield power! And it will be powerful again, if I can complete my work! But I cannot do that if I have to squander my resources on every task you set me! This is what I said would happen, Siffaith! They will take my resources and use them for themselves, and I will never be able to do what I set out to!"

"Dyegh," says Siffaith, "it will be a delay, nothing more."

"They are aiding us against the Voth," Tyonovon puts in. "The Voth are our enemies, Dyegh, I know. I have seen them. The Voth will not let you complete your work."

"Neither will these!" Dyegh screeches.

"We have laws," I say. "Our non-interference directive - we can't interfere with your work. We can't make any demands of you. But we have to work together, Dyegh, we have to. Or neither of us can win, against the Voth."

"You say you have laws," says Dyegh. "But that machine of yours is there with a weapon ready to hand -"

I sigh. We've been through this. But - "Commander Pearl." The android stiffens. "Give Dyegh your weapon."

She complies at once, handing the Voth gun to the Solanae. Dyegh turns it over in his claws, staring at it.

"While we're at it," I say, "I still have a gun. We carry equipment, suspended in transit." I tap at my combadge, and the phaser rifle materializes in my hand. I offer it to Dyegh. "There. Now I'm disarmed as well. I never found a use for it anyway."

Dyegh takes the gun. He says nothing.

"We can't compel you. We can't give you orders, we can't make you do a damn thing," I say. "But Tyonovon's right, the Voth don't have our scruples. And besides, there are more than a thousand people on the Tempest, including my friend. And they'll die unless we think of something to stop the Voth. I can't compel you, Dyegh, but I can ask. If you can help - help us. Please."

Dyegh's hands shake. The guns clatter to the floor. Nobody moves to pick them up.

"You ask for my trust," he says. "I - I do not know. I - have never dealt with gods, before."

"We're not gods," I say, firmly.

"So you have said. So you have said...." Dyegh stands straighter. It seems he has come to a decision. He shuffles across the floor to another of the consoles.

"Dyegh," says Siffaith, "what are you going to do?"

"As I was asked," Dyegh snaps back. His claws rattle over the console interface. "I know what the Voth did, how they interfered with my systems, how they set up their attack. I know exactly what they did - Stand away from the force fields. There may be interruptions to their power supply."

I look down, at the rippling glassy surface beneath my feet, at the machinery-filled void under that. I move onto a piece of solid floor, quickly.

"The Voth used some of the Home's systems, but they did not know what they were doing. They were clumsy. Inept." Dyegh's claws are tapping in commands in a fast staccato sequence. "I can do everything they did, and more. They drained my power reserves, but that need not matter. I have an energy supply. I can do what they did, and I can do it properly."

A single, unfamiliar icon is glowing on the console screen. Dyegh's claw jabs it, decisively.

And the sun goes out.

Noonday Sun 27

T'Pia

Cold air gathers itself about me as I fall.

The surface of the sphere is spread out before me, a tapestry of buildings and grassy spaces, veiled here and there by low-lying fleecy clouds.

The gravity is variable, depending on factors such as the proximity and power of local grav generators. Air density, consequently, is also highly variable. In one respect, this is fortunate - if I were on a conventional planet, I would be so high that the oxygen content of the atmosphere would be insufficient to maintain consciousness. However, it does mean that there are too many variables for me to calculate my effective terminal velocity. I do not know how many minutes I have to live.

I am sure, though, that it is a small number. I touch my combadge. "T'Pia to Tempest. Urgent."

There is a brief pause, but the comms system has reconfigured itself. Twosani Dezin's voice replies. "Tempest here. What's your situation, sir?"

The wind is gathering as my speed increases. "I am falling from the interior of the spire. Please lock transporters onto my combadge and beam me up."

There is another pause. That is disconcerting. The communications link has already been established; the delay, therefore, must be down to some other factor. This becomes clear when Twosani's voice replies, "Sir, the transporters are still slaved to the spire's transport system. We can reset and test, but it will take time -"

Time I do not have. I review my options, and fight back panic. "Very well. We must attempt a physical interception. I assume you have helm control?" If they do not, I am dead.

"We have - but, sir -"

"Plot a rendezvous course. I will modify my own trajectory to match, as much as I am able, when I have a visual on the ship. Take appropriate precautions, but proceed expeditiously." My voice is louder than I would like, as I say that last word. I could, of course, blame it on the increasing wind, which is forcing me to shout, now -

"We'll - do our best, sir!" Twosani's voice is faint.

"I am sure you will. I will await your arrival with keen anticipation! I cannot maintain voice communication any longer!" The air is howling around my face, tugging at my clothing, at my hair. Twosani's voice says something more, but I cannot make out the words.

There is, strangely, little sense of falling. The sphere is so vast, it is hard to gain an impression of my speed from visual cues, and I am familiar with the feeling of weightlessness. The only real clue comes from the wind, as I plummet through the air. I spread out my arms and legs, increasing the surface area I present, slowing my fall by some infinitesimal fraction.

I must not fear. The primordial dread of death is beating at the back of my mind, but I must not let it in. There is no one to see me, no one to witness my shame if I break down, if I let my logic slip.... It is precisely because of this that I must not fail. No one will know, but me. It is what we do when no one will know... that defines us.

I must not fear.

There is much to distract me, in the landscape beneath me. Buildings larger than many cities, insignificantly small at this distance... each one has a purpose, has a story, perhaps a longer story than that of my entire species. The spire... I can see, in the distance, one of the three towering legs of the spire. Even allowing for the space-wasteful interior architecture designed by the Solanae, the spire must have enough surface area, all by itself, to accommodate a nation.

Indeed, it does house a nation... the last remnant, perhaps, of the Solanae. I would prefer, on an intellectual level, to remain alive so as to witness our efforts to establish relations with these Solanae, to learn their story, perhaps to reach out, through them, to their cousins in subspace. I would prefer to be alive... to see this, and so many other things....

I must not fear.

The wind is howling in my ears, and behind it comes another sound, a great bellowing roar that comes from no living throat -

Tempest rises beneath me like a whale surging up from the deeps. Someone - most probably Pascale, with her mechanical precision - has driven the ship into a steep dive, to get below me, to rise up now and match my vector. I steel myself. I must do whatever I can to help them -

The white-grey rounded bulk of the main saucer swells, blotting out my view of the sphere. I draw in my arms, changing my angle of attack, moving myself closer to the ship. If I can reach an airlock, all will be well.

Tempest looms up beside me, her thrusters roaring. The air around her becomes like her namesake, a turbulent, swirling mass that catches me and sends me spinning. The hull is a grey blur, sliding past me -

I slam into the side of the ship, my head and my upper torso smashing heavily against it, hard enough for stars to explode across my vision. Then the air takes me and hurls me aside again, limbs flailing as I seek to regain control.

There is a flash, a fugitive gleam of bright metal, in the corner of my eye -

Tempest's hull is out of reach; I bring my arms close to my body, making myself narrower, allowing me to fall faster, straighter. The airflow around the ship's hull is a deafening barrage of blasts - and the thrusters are adding their own sounds, again. I reach up, carefully, feeling at the breast of my torn tunic.

Nothing. My combadge was torn loose in the collision. And Twosani is surely tracking that, instead of me -

Tempest slides by at terrifying speed. Caught in the turbulent flow of air over the hull, I am tumbling towards the stern of the ship. I strive to compose myself, to find a handhold, something to grip, something, anything, within reach.

My flailing right hand touches something - hot metal, almost hot enough to burn - but it is something, and I grasp it, instinctively. Rough, hot edges dig into the palm of my hand, and a smell of burning fills my nostrils, and I come to a halt with a jerk that nearly wrenches my arm off at the shoulder.

I am hanging, one-handed, to a grille at the trailing edge of the engineering hull, my body flapping like a flag behind the Tempest - and I know what the grille is; it is the rear starboard RCS thruster. If Pascale needs to fire that thruster, at this distance, it will blast the flesh off my bones - I grit my teeth, and pull with my aching arm, pulling myself in, towards the Tempest.

I get a grip with my other hand, and manage to turn and bend my body, and find a foothold. I scramble over the top of the thruster assembly, to find myself clinging to the upper surface of the engineering hull. The wind is blasting around me; Tempest is gathering speed. But I am partly within the ship's deflector field, and there is enough artificial gravity leaking through the hull to hold me - if I am cautious.

Hand over hand, moving on all fours from one precarious handhold to another, I make my way forwards. The blank metal door of the shuttle bay. That is where I need to be. In the lee of the blasting winds, safer, steadier. I fix my thoughts on that goal, think of nothing else, as I pull myself forwards.

It takes an age, or what feels like an age. But, finally, I am under the overhanging edge of the shuttlebay doors. And - I look around. I am remembering, correctly, some details of the Pathfinder-class starship's exterior.

Just outside the shuttle bay are two emergency airlocks. I pull myself to my feet, stagger the few steps to the starboard lock. There is a comms panel; I key it with shaking, bloodied fingers.

"T'Pia to bridge," I say. "I am at the starboard exterior airlock beside the shuttle bay." I check; there are no security conditions in effect. "I will let myself in."

---

Inside, it is blessedly calm and quiet - by comparison, at least. The corridors are crowded, though. It looks as if Twosani has successfully evacuated the whole of the Tapiola's surviving crew, and the Orb Weaver's complement is several times larger than the Tempest was designed for. I pass along the corridors with as much energy and confidence as I can muster. It is not a lot.

I can feel, though, a sense of... approval. A Starfleet crew will respect a commander who takes risks - it is, perhaps, not logical, but it is a fact. I am saluted, on several occasions, with military precision, and return the salutes in like fashion. I must concede, though, that I would desperately like to rest.

I get to the turbolift on the shuttle deck, and its door opens to reveal Twosani and the Trill doctor, Lishin. "Sir -" says Twosani, her concern obvious in her black eyes. "We thought we'd lost you."

"I lost my combadge. I am, however, here and uninjured."

"You're not uninjured," Lishin says severely. She has a medical scanner in one hand.

"Minor abrasions, burns and contusions. Nothing of significance." I step into the turbolift. "Bridge," I say to the capsule, then I turn to Twosani. "Situation report."

"We're operational - just. Life support systems are overloaded, but they'll last out for a quick run to Joint Command, or to a relief ship if we can get one. But the main problem is the burned-out bioneural circuitry. That did a lot more damage than we'd thought. A lot of the ship's systems are on secondary or tertiary emergency backup. We can get a better picture from the main systems board -"

The turbolift doors hiss open, and I step through onto the Tempest's bridge. It is crowded, like the rest of the ship, and even a cursory glance shows me far too many red and amber lights on status displays. And... everyone appears to be standing up. It is peculiar, but the only person occupying a bridge seat is Pascale, at the helm.

I walk up to the command chair, and I stop, and I see why.

The seat covering is scorched and blackened, and there is a dark ashy residue on it. And, among that residue, a few tarnished scraps of metal - discoloured, but still recognizable. A Starfleet combadge, and the rank insignia of a Rear Admiral, Lower Half. The mortal remains, such as they are, of Daniel Fallon.

I do not sit. I put both hands on the back of the command chair, though, and rest for a moment. I am sore and bruised and desperately tired.

"Repairs are in progress," Twosani says quietly, beside me. Lishin is scanning my injuries - she will discover that I am right, that they are superficial only. "We should be in a position to go to impulse within an hour or so - and if we can get through to Joint Command, they can send help -"

"I recall the frequencies I used, to contact Subcommander Kaol from the spire." I straighten up, and suppress a wince. "Let me see the comms board." I move towards that station, with Lishin swearing under her breath behind me.

There is an indicator light flashing on the comms panel. I raise one eyebrow. "It appears," I say, "that someone is attempting to communicate." I touch the board, opening the channel.

A voice sounds first, before any image appears on the viewscreen. "Starfleet personnel. We see that you have reactivated the USS Tempest." The voice is familiar. "We will state the conditions under which you will be permitted to depart. You will instruct your Joint Command that this facility is now under the control of Voth forces, and that interference will not be permitted -"

A face now appears on the main screen. It is one I have seen before; the massive, scaled, craggy countenance of the Voth commander, Stannark. From the background behind him, it appears that he is in the cockpit of some small vehicle. He stops speaking as soon as he sees me.

"This is Admiral T'Pia," I say. "I regret, Commander Stannark, that the factors which we discussed during our previous conversation have not materially altered. We are unable to give you the assurances you require, and we cannot permit you to take control of the spire."

Stannark remains absolutely still and silent for a second. Then, "You," he says, in tones of undisguised anger. "I thought I had killed you - This changes things. This changes everything." He leans forward, his face filling the screen. "You will not escape my anger again. I will end this, now. I will end you."

Noonday Sun 26

"Thirty heavy exosuits destroyed, and nearly eighty per cent of our furiadons," Karzis reported, his voice heavy with gloom. "Casualties among lighter elements were... substantial. The exosuits themselves are easily replaceable, but the trained operators are, unfortunately, another matter."

"And the dinosaurs?" Stannark demanded.

"We have clone stock for replacements, but it will take time to decant them, force-grow them to maturity, install the enhancements... At least a week before we are back even to minimum complement."

Stannark ground his teeth. "This is a serious setback. We need our ground units to pacify the spire, to remove the arthropods.... I need another approach. Suggest something! You are my intelligence analyst, analyse some intelligence for me!" He turned and stamped irritably back and forth across the command deck.

"It would be helpful to have more intelligence," said Karzis. His dry tone was back. "I suggest we open negotiations."

Stannark turned to face him. "What?"

"To gather intelligence." Karzis tapped one of his ocular implants. "My facial expression categorizer and voice stress analysis software is adequate to determine the truth or falsehood of any primate's statements.... Let us talk to them, ask them questions... and receive, whether they will or no, truthful answers. Once we have a fuller picture of their capability, we can tailor our strategy to suit."

Stannark stood still, considering. "Certainly, we need to know what accommodations they have reached with the Solanae arthropods.... Very well. The Starfleet primates are supposed to be in favour of negotiation over conflict. Supposed to be.... Set it up."

"I will pre-empt some of the spire's comms channels and open a video link," said Karzis. "I will need to see the primate's face." His taloned fingers rattled on his console. "This is more difficult than it should be. The spire's systems are engaging countermeasures - antivirus protocols, firewalls to block our software probes. It is... annoying." Stannark said nothing. Karzis worked at the console for several minutes, then leaned back in his seat. "Transmitting a signal with comms channel information and a request for parley. It is now a matter of waiting, while they decide if they want to parley...."

"Starfleet claims to be peaceable," said Stannark. "More to the point, their own position is hardly secure... they should welcome the opportunity."

"What proposals do you intend to make to them?"

"I will give them the opportunity to withdraw peacefully from the spire. I may offer more... for the sake of appearances... but the only outcome I will accept is complete victory for us."

"Well," said Karzis, "our ground losses are only a setback, after all -" A light pulsed on his console. "I have a response."

"On screen." Stannark turned to face the bridge viewscreen.

The face that appeared on it was pale, with green eyes and red-brown hair. Stannark could see Solanae walls and consoles in the background. "This is Admiral T'Pia. You have indicated a desire to communicate. I am glad to oblige you in that."

Stannark took a ponderous step forwards. "I am Gavron Stannark, commander of the Gendratis, responsible for the Voth mission to pacify and control this facility. I require you and your remaining Starfleet forces to withdraw from this area."

"I see," said T'Pia. "It is not possible for us to comply with your request. There are several reasons for this, which, if you will permit me, I will enumerate. Firstly, the spire is properly the home territory of its Solanae occupants. Secondly -"

"The Solanae are parasites! They are - they are squatters, occupying Voth property!"

"That may be Voth Doctrine, but it is not accurate," said T'Pia. "Secondly -"

"You dare to challenge Doctrine, you - you mammal?"

"Secondly," T'Pia continued, "it is contrary to our interests to allow you to take control of a military facility which you would use against us - have, in fact, already used against us, inflicting considerable loss of life."

"Justified," Stannark snarled. "We destroyed the primate Fallon, who had taken many Voth lives with deliberate malice! We are entitled to destroy those who oppose us!"

"I had the opportunity to observe Rear Admiral Fallon's methods," said T'Pia, "as did my colleague Admiral M'eioi, who was disturbed by them. Such behaviour is often found in times of war, however. Realistically, therefore, it is one more sound reason to bring the conflict between our cultures to a peaceful, negotiated conclusion."

"Peace? Peace can be attained simply and readily," said Stannark. "Merely leave the sphere to us, its rightful occupants! Simplicity itself."

"Again, I must question your species's Doctrine in this respect," said T'Pia, "and, again, military reality precludes such an arrangement. Your experiments with the sphere's Omega particles pose a danger which we cannot accept."

"Our scientists know what they are doing!"

"That assessment is inaccurate. Also, we have of late had direct experience of the military potential of a fully-armed enemy Dyson sphere. It is not an experience which we are anxious to repeat. A negotiated settlement - which must, now, include the Solanae - might set up a joint administration and research project, to investigate the sphere and examine its technologies safely. Both we and the Voth would gain much from such an arrangement."

"We do not need you! Your people are a distraction, an annoyance -" Stannark broke off. He took a deep breath, forcing himself back under control "In any case - this is broad policy, and not an area where either of us can make commitments. Here and now, Admiral T'Pia, I must arrange for the departure of your forces from this spire."

"I see. Such a departure could only take place if we were convinced that the Solanae's rights would be respected by you, and that the spire's military potential would not be deployed against us. I assume that you are not willing to make binding promises in respect of these matters. We must, therefore, continue to work to counter your efforts."

Stannark glared. The creature looked soft, scaleless, noisome, with that mop of reddish fibres over the naked membrane of its face.... Its whole face looked like an open wound. "You cannot win," he ground out. "I have the full resources of a Bulwark-class battleship. It will take time, it will be tedious, but I will gain control."

"My colleague, Admiral M'eioi -"

"I do not wish to know about your pet!"

"Admiral M'eioi is in consultation with the Solanae authorities," said T'Pia, "and together they are able to deploy the resources of the spire against your forces - and those resources exceed those of your battleship by an order of magnitude. It is true that our control is, as yet, incomplete. Nonetheless, I feel confident that we will achieve our ends."

"I can bring in other resources! I can call in a fleet!"

"So can I," said T'Pia. "I have access to Joint Command, and you cannot create your biolytic fields while we dispute with you over the spire's control systems. If you wish for a massively destructive conflict, it can be arranged. You will, of course, recall that Voth military superiority in such conflicts is by no means guaranteed."

Stannark bared his teeth. "You expect me to negotiate, to reach a compromise, to make concessions," he growled. "Well, I will not! I speak for Voth Doctrine, and our Doctrine is inarguable fact! You will be defeated, and I will make you pay for your insolence!" He rounded on Karzis. "Screen off!"

Karzis touched a control, and the viewer went blank. "Interesting," he commented.

"What did you get?" Stannark demanded.

"T'Pia is a Vulcan, and that species of primate is culturally predisposed towards accuracy," said Karzis. "I am reasonably confident, I am afraid, that she is telling the truth about her ability to reach Alliance Joint Command." His voice sharpened as he turned his head towards his commander. "Would High Command send a support fleet if you asked for one?"

"Doubtful," said Stannark. "Not in the face of a full-on counterattack by the primate forces, certainly. That is alarming." His face worked as if he were tasting something foul. "To know that my threat is hollow, where hers is not...."

"She is on less certain ground in some things," said Karzis. "She speaks of the Solanae authorities, and of working with them... but either the authorities, or Starfleet's alliance with them, is considerably more tenuous than she wishes us to think. Possibly both. She does not have mastery over the spire's systems." He shook his head. "But she is confident that she will have it... more confident than I would like."

"Anything else?"

"She speaks of her colleague, M'eioi.... I gather that she regards the creature as a capable partner, absurd though the idea might seem to us. However, the way in which she said it...." Karzis's tone grew pensive. Stannark could see data flashing on his ocular implants.

"Tapiola is wrecked, her crew sheltering in the sphere's infrastructure. Timor is still on the docking platform," Karzis said. "I think that both T'Pia and M'eioi are detached from their commands. That they have only their own resources, and a very uncertain friendship with the Solanae, to rely on. In which case...."

"What?" snapped Stannark.

"If either one were removed from the equation," said Karzis, "Starfleet's position would be significantly weakened. Now, M'eioi is with the Solanae in their command centre, and hidden behind shields and security barriers that are still proving obdurate. But T'Pia... T'Pia used the resources of the docking station against us. She is in the control room for the docking platform, and she is alone there, I am reasonably sure of that. She must keep her position in that room, or she sacrifices several of her few advantages."

"She is isolated, and pinned down to a specific location," said Stannark. "She is vulnerable."

"Quite so," said Karzis. "And I am, again, reasonably certain that I know her location, and it is within reach of our troops. Shall we despatch an assault team to take her?"

"No," said Stannark. "No, I am tired of this. It is more than time that I took a personal hand." He turned, and strode to the bridge doors. "Prepare my Dacentrus."

---

The mammals called the exosuits battlemechs; ridiculous, Stannark thought. The metal and electronics of the Dacentrus were not like a vehicle, not even like a suit of armour... they meshed with him, they were an extension of himself....

And in the Dacentrus, he was strong, and powerful, and fast again, as he had not been fast in a long time. He raced down the spire's corridors, his mighty footsteps booming as he went, and he felt his pulse quicken in anticipation of the hunt.

"Local mapping complete. We have the location of the docking controls," Karzis's voice sounded in his ear.

From the outside, the Dacentrus presented a face of implacably blank metal armour; the holo-systems in the interior made that as transparent as glass. Now, the readouts drew a map in the air before Stannark's eyes, showed him the path, identified his destination.

"Not far now," he muttered. A twitch of one finger readied the exosuit's armaments.

"I have no readings on local defences," said Karzis's voice, "but we must assume there are some -"

"I will be equal to them," growled Stannark. "More than equal. The primate cannot use her tractor arrays in here."

The first barrier confronted him now - a simple closed door, one which refused to open at his approach. Another twitch of his finger - and blasts of scarlet light from his arm cannons smashed the door into flaming flinders. He rushed through without breaking stride.

"Security alert level has risen at your location," said Karzis.

"Obviously," Stannark snarled back. He was already taking aim at the next closed door.

"You are approaching the -"

"I can read a map!"

The next door exploded. A short, curving corridor lay on the other side. Stannark thundered down it, cannons blazing.

"It is likely that she has prepared -"

"She cannot prepare for this."

The Dacentrus's indirect-fire cannon belched, once. There was a moment's pause, and then the explosive shell detonated at the end of the corridor. Stannark fired again. This time, the shell hurtled through the smoke and wreckage to explode in the room beyond.

Stannark charged through the open doorway, and into the docking control room. The exosuit's motion sensors were jangling, but the movement of a living body was easily distinguishable from the falling of wreckage. Antiproton blasts lashed out from the arm cannons, leaving a trail of devastation across the opposite wall.

"She is moving fast," Stannark muttered.

"I do not have a positional fix -"

"I do. Now, silence." Stannark looked around the control room. His weapons had left consoles shattered and sparking, and there were ominous creaking sounds coming from the structure. He trod cautiously around the transparent panel at the centre of the room. The exosuit could take a fall - it was rated for insertion via sub-orbital drop - but it would take a weary time to climb back up from the docking platform, and he would lose his target in the process.

The overlay display flickered and changed. Karzis was sending additional mapping data. Wisely, he was doing so without comment. Stannark could make out a fleeing, moving point, an object which could only be T'Pia -

There was other movement. Stannark snarled.

The first security swarmer emerged from a panel on the ceiling, firing immediately. Its antiproton beam splashed harmlessly off Stannark's shields, and his return fire blew it to smoking ruins. But another was behind it, and another. Stannark muttered an oath. "This will require finesse," he said to himself, and he crouched and leaned forward.

The swarmers fired, swung around in a swirling of tentacles, fired again. Stannark ignored them. His eyes narrowed as he judged the angles. "Now," he muttered, and triggered the indirect-fire cannon.

The explosive shell flew on the exact trajectory Stannark had planned, and he allowed himself a smile. The round passed through the ceiling panel and detonated inside the access channel the swarmers were using. The control room shuddered and rocked with the explosion. "That will slow them down," Stannark said with satisfaction, and he swung his arms, cannons blazing, to cut down the swarmers in mid-air.

"Reacquiring main target." The blip that was T'Pia was further away, now, but nowhere near out of range. Stannark moved forwards. One console in the control room still seemed to be functioning; as he passed it, he lashed out with one clawed steel foot, reducing it to ruins.

"I have her," he announced. "Oh, I do not have a visual, yet, but I have her."

In the exosuit, he was fast and tireless. He could thunder down the tubular corridors all day, at speeds no organic could match. T'Pia was moving, was dodging down side passages, attempting to lose herself in the maze of corridors - and it would do her no good, could do her no good.

He was closing on her. She had to know that. The Vulcans were supposed to suppress their emotions, he knew, but the fear of death had to be rising in her, now - would rise further, with every stride he took.

"You are approaching the outer wall of the spire," Karzis's voice said.

"She is looking for an exit, perhaps. She will find none." The motion sensors showed her closer, now, only a few twists and turns ahead. "She is running out of options."

His sensors were on high alert, but there was no sign of any more attacking swarmers. No sign, either, of T'Pia deploying weapons. She had a personal shield, that much he could see, but it would be useless against the power of the exosuit's cannons.

He rounded another corner, charged down the next passage. Only a little further now -

And then there was a round doorway before him, and a room beyond, and light, sunlight falling in through narrow arched windows in the opposite wall. The slight, black-clad figure of his target was silhouetted in the sunlight. Stannark slowed to a halt. He raised his weapons - then he cut in the suit's external speakers.

"Admiral T'Pia. Let me show you why you should not question Doctrine." He took aim.

And T'Pia turned, and flung herself bodily out of the window, into the empty air beyond.

Stannark stared. He checked his maps. There was nothing below, no outcropping of the spire's structure - only the surface of the sphere, many kilometres below. And he could see T'Pia's signal on the motion detectors, dwindling into the distance as she fell....

He switched back to internal comms. "This is Stannark. The primate T'Pia has destroyed herself. I am returning to the ship."

Noonday Sun 25

T'Pia

With the help of M'eioi and the Solanae, it is relatively simple to open the requisite communications channels. The situation is - somewhat - improved. We can coordinate our efforts, and - if M'eioi can be sufficiently diplomatic - we can enlist the assistance of the Solanae.

Even so, the Voth force is substantial. Our ships are not primarily military, and the Solanae do not appear to be combat effective. I place little reliance on the security swarmers, no matter how many of them the Solanae can field. Both we and the Voth have long since developed tactics for dealing with the swarmers - they are a threat to isolated, individual units, but only an annoyance to an organized force.

And the Voth are certainly organized.

Twosani Dezin sounds relieved, when I finally make contact with her. She is dubious, at first, about reclaiming the Tempest, but the apparent advantages eventually outweigh her emotional reluctance. She has already deciphered most of the control protocols for the transporter network, so it does not take long, with the aid of the Solanae and Commander Pearl's prefix codes, to link the transport pad to the Tempest's transporter room.

"Though I don't know how we're going to test it - we don't have any standard transporter test masses," she says. I make no reply. After a moment, she adds, "We could improvise something - rig a tricorder to one of the cargo containers, maybe -"

"That suggestion has merit," I say. And I am glad she thought of it for herself; her initiative and intelligence have not been completely suppressed by shock from her recent experiences. "Program a round trip, and study the tricorder readouts. It would be helpful to make the personnel transfer expeditiously."

"I'll get on it. Sir, what about you?"

I look around me. "For the present, I will remain in this control room. There are bound to be assets here which I can utilize."

"Surely Admiral M'eioi and the Solanae could run things remotely from their control centre?"

"They have many other calls on their attention. Please proceed with the transporter tests." I turn away from the comms console and stride to the centre of the room, where I look down to watch the docking platform and the Timor.

There is definitely movement nearby. I can see the shifting of lights in the windows near the platform; shadows passing, which can only be cast by large moving objects. The Voth are making their way through the corridors, towards the Timor.

I consider plans, assess strategies, discard unworkable options. There are entirely too many of those last.

The comms console bleats for my attention; I return to it. "Transporter tests check out," Twosani reports. "We are cleared for personnel transfer."

"Excellent. Transport medical staff first, then the wounded needing attention. The facilities of Tempest's sickbay will undoubtedly be superior to our own improvisations."

"Yes, sir."

"I must attend to other matters." I cut the channel, switch in another. "T'Pia to Timor."

A human female voice responds in clipped tones. "This is Commander Kothe aboard the Timor. Good to hear from you, sir."

"Do you have Admiral M'eioi's tactical data feed?" I see no reason to waste time on pleasantries.

"Yes, sir. There's a whole lot of Voth armour coming our way." Kothe sounds concerned, but not agitated. This is good.

"I have considered the tactical possibilities. You cannot maintain a defensive perimeter against a concerted attack by Voth battlemechs."

"I agree, sir. We've already pulled the security teams back aboard the ship. We've left minefields and automated turrets, but those won't slow the Voth down for long. We're going to launch the ship, raise shields, and put her into free-float, keeping station maybe half a kilometre above the platform."

That was one option I had considered. "I regret that your plan may not be sufficient. The Voth have substantial ground-based firepower. If the Timor remains in range of their battlemechs, they may have enough resources to breach even your shields."

"We'll destroy them before they can mount a coordinated assault," says Kothe.

"Contra-indicated. You cannot discharge the Timor's plasma weapons and torpedoes without risking collateral damage to the docking platform, which in turn would identify the ship as hostile to the spire's automated defences. You observed, I believe, the internal antiproton batteries on your way in."

There is a pause. "If we can exit the spire completely -" Kothe begins.

"You would evade the Voth ground forces. But they have a Bulwark-class battleship at their disposal - it is currently docked to the spire, but it can undock at a moment's notice."

There is another pause. Kothe's voice sounds more stressed when she speaks again. "The Voth mechs are getting awfully close, sir. If you have a workable suggestion, I'd be glad to hear it."

I look around me, at the glowing consoles in the command centre. "I believe I do."

---

The Voth attack is swift, sudden, and well-planned.

The first wave consists of heavy Polyonax-class mechs, stomping towards the Timor. Their heavy-duty shields simply shrug off phaser fire from the light turrets, and those shields have built-in repulsor fields which clear the turrets and the minefields as effectively as a bulldozer.

Behind them come other battlemechs - lighter Ceratopsid-classes and some of the huge Dacentrus mechs - and the dinosaurs: dankanasaurs, leaping into position to fire their antiproton barrages, and the larger lumbering forms of furiadons. I repress a shiver at the sight of them. I have been in the mind of a furiadon, I know how they think....

A ring of firepower is forming around the Timor as she squats on the docking platform. Although the Voth mechs have powerful weaponry, it is probably not powerful enough, in itself, to bring down Timor's Reman-designed shields. But, behind the heavy advance troops, Voth technicians and specialists are moving in. Protected by the mechs and saurians, the techs will be able to generate electromagnetic effects: polycyclic drills that will pierce even a starship's shields.

Given time. Time which Commander Kothe and I do not propose to allow them.

I study the tactical readout fed from the Solanae command centre, compare it to what I can see on the ground, far below. M'eioi and her new friends continue to gather reliable intelligence on the Voth movements. I have all the information I need. I turn to the next console.

"Incoming fire," Kothe's voice reports. "Shields holding." I expected nothing else, at this stage.

"Commencing," I say. "First target is Polyonax-class at bearing two two zero from your location. Please confirm."

"Got him. Ready when you are, sir."

"Activating." I touch a control.

This is the command centre for the docking platform, and it has... appropriate resources. From this console, I can control tractor arrays powerful enough to handle full-sized starships. Not only that, the controls are fine-tuned - necessarily, to move components or freight containers during loading or maintenance procedures. The tractors are more than adequate to handle the Voth.

So, I touch the control - and, hundreds of metres below me, a Voth battlemech rises into the air, its antiproton weapons suddenly falling silent. It is not damaged - the mechs are not so fragile - but its occupant is, understandably, startled at this development.

The Polyonax rises into the air, and, as it reaches the height Commander Kothe and I have agreed, the Timor's dorsal plasma array opens fire. A Polyonax-class mech has robust and resilient shields, but they offer only brief resistance to a starship's weapons banks. The mech flares and explodes; I turn off the tractor, and the remains of the mech fall as burning, molten rain onto the platform.

I am already targeting the next mech.

The Voth line of battle wavers, the dinosaurs scurrying back and forth as the primaeval dread of fire overrides their cyborg control devices. A Ceratopsid-class snaps off an energy bolt - aiming at what, I do not know. The tractor beam emitters are outside their effective range; even if they are lucky enough to hit one or two, there is a great deal of redundancy in the system, and I have many spares.

Again, Timor's plasma beams lash out; again, a mech dies in a blast of flame.

The Voth are suddenly in disarray, firing randomly in all directions... and this is sufficient to gain me additional allies, as damage to the spire alerts the security swarmers. I concentrate; I must avoid hitting the swarmers with my tractors, or more automated responses may take control of the beams away from me. But the swarmers are small, fast-moving targets, and it is no trouble to pick out the Polyonax and Dacentrus-class mechs from among them.

There is a dim glow of orange light on the platform. Timor's ground security troops, firing from prepared positions within the ship's shields, targeting the Voth technicians who are now exposed as the front line shatters in confusion. The swarmers are harassing the Voth techs, too, and many of them have already been injured by the falling remains of the destroyed mechs. I continue to pull the larger mechs into the air, where Timor picks them off with relentless accuracy.

A furiadon, maddened beyond any sort of cybernetic control, rushes through the Voth lines and hurls itself off the edge of the docking platform. Other dinosaurs are fighting each other, or leaping onto battlemechs, or retreating under cover and savaging any Voth personnel who attempt to stop them. It is an ugly sight. I force myself to remain calm, to target the heavy enemy units, to drag them into Timor's line of fire -

After what seems like no time at all, there are no enemy units to target. The Dacentrus and Polyonax-class mechs have all been destroyed. There are substantial casualties among the other Voth forces. I narrow the focus of the beams and pick up a Ceratopsid-class mech. It is a smaller target, but the Timor's gunners cope with it quite adequately.

But one missed shot from Timor will identify her, too, as a hostile to the spire's systems.... I consider, and instead of narrowing the focus, I broaden it, and switch the tractors to repulsor mode. A swift movement of one finger sends a beam sweeping across the platform, smashing everything beneath it into the deck. Several Ceratopsids stagger to their feet after the beam's passage. The dinosaurs, and the Voth techs and footsoldiers, do not.

The remaining Voth have quite clearly had enough. They break and run, heading for the corridor entrances from which they emerged. A few crazed dinosaurs are still wandering the platform; Timor's security troops cut them down.

The docking platform is a grisly sight, covered in burning debris, smashed war machinery, Voth corpses and Voth blood. The Timor sits behind her shields, untouched.

"No damage! No casualties!" Commander Kothe's voice is exultant. "We did it, sir! We beat them!"

For emotional reasons, it is not the time to disillusion her. But the Voth will not like being beaten. They will regroup, they will make plans, they will attack again, with different tactics. We must consider our response.

Noonday Sun 24

M'eioi

It's a relief to hear Marya Kothe's voice. "We've been trying to get through the interference for a while, sir," she says. "Since you, um, vanished, we haven't made any moves to explore the spire - all we've done is set up a secure perimeter around the docks, and got to work on the local data systems."

"All right," I say. "Secure perimeter is good, because the Voth are here, and they've destroyed our two consorts already. I want you to hold that line and look for a way out. Worst case, we will have to exit the spire and make a run for safety."

"The Voth?" Marya sounds startled.

"At least one Bulwark-class battleship. They have troops inside the spire right now." And some of them, if I'm reading the Solanae display correctly, are dangerously close to the docking platform. "The other big development is this. I've made contact with the inhabitants of the spire. They're Solanae, descendants of survivors of the initial disaster. The Voth are attacking them, too, and we've got... something of an alliance going. I'm at a Solanae control centre now, and we're trying to contain the Voth. We need to evolve some kind of tactical plan for that."

"If there's even one Bulwark here, sir, then we're heavily outgunned and outnumbered," says Marya.

"I know. But we have the spire's own defensive systems to work with, and that's got to count for something. Maybe it'll even count for enough." I frown. "One more point. Who else have we lost?"

"Sir?" Marya sounds puzzled. I wish I could see her face, but the Solanae console doesn't have a workable video link.

"We're picking up one Starfleet comms signature, some distance away from the ship. Who else wandered off, besides me?"

"I'll run a check, sir, but I've had no reports of any losses...." Marya's voice fades away. I look up from the console, glance at Pearl, at the twitchy shapes of the three Solanae... at the map.

The Voth forces are... frighteningly widespread. I can see our barriers, can see the markers for security swarmers... and it doesn't even begin to look enough. Scale, I remind myself. A sense of scale. The spire is huge, it would take an army of Voth to control it - not just one ship. I hope.

That one Starfleet signature is bugging me. It's definitely there, and it's definitely Starfleet, though we can't get a specific ID off it. Too much interference. Still.

"Ah." Dyegh speaks. "I have something for you... one of your missing ships." He shuffles over to the map console, does something to it. The map shrinks a little bit, and a glowing shape appears, some way off to the side. The image is a bit rough and basic, but it's clear enough. A Pathfinder-class science vessel. The Tempest.

"Just the one ship?" I ask.

"Oh, I am sorry if it is insufficient!" Dyegh snaps at me.

"I'm just - a bit puzzled. The Tapiola is larger, has a bigger emissions profile - she should be easier to find than that one."

"I will continue to search," Dyegh says. I'm not sure how much I can trust the universal translator for emotional nuance - but I'm pretty sure he is not happy.

Meanwhile, the other two, Siffaith and Tyonovon, have been conferring in an undertone, and now Siffaith comes over towards me. "A possibility," he says. "We have the frequencies for your communicators, now, and Tyonovon remembers, once, dealing with our own comms system. I think we can link your network directly to ours."

"Thanks," I say, "but it looks like we've got comms with our ship already -"

"Yes," says Siffaith, "but our system is hardened against the interference from our shields. A direct link will make it much easier to talk to your ship, or to contact -" he points at the dot on the map "- detached elements like that one. We could even link in your matter transporters to our own transport network. That would give us a significant advantage in mobility over the Voth."

"That's a good idea," I say. "We need all the advantages we can get. Thank you, Siffaith." I look at Dyegh. "I hope that won't cause you any problems."

"My problems," says Dyegh, "are clearly not an issue. Set it up."

I sneak another glance over at Tyonovon. I'd rather got the impression that she was nothing but an idler - it seems that most of the Solanae have settled down into a sort of lotus-eater mentality, with the spire serving all their basic needs, so they have nothing much to do but play. Dyegh and Siffaith appear to be exceptions to that... but it seems Tyonovon, too, has her uses, her specialist knowledge. Just goes to show, I suppose. You should never write anyone off.

"Sir, can you hear me?" Marya's voice again. The comms channel is kind of staticky, at that.

"I'm here," I say.

"All personnel accounted for, sir," says Marya. "Whoever that is, it's not one of ours."

I look at Pearl. "Another survivor, then?"

The android shakes her head. "No one on the Tempest survived, sir, except me. I'm certain of that."

"Then maybe it's someone from Tapiola - wait. T'Pia did have an android officer assigned to her - maybe she survived and beamed over to the station, just like you did."

Siffaith has been working at the console, claws tapping rapidly on the panels, while we've been speaking; now, he looks up. "I think I have the comms connection... perhaps you can test it, by signalling that one. Amplified through our comms net, your device should reach them without problems."

I pull my combadge off my uniform tunic, use my tricorder to check the settings. "Let's give it a try." I touch the badge. "This is M'eioi calling Starfleet personnel operating solo within the spire. Please report your status."

A brief pause - and then, a voice I thought I'd never hear again. "This is T'Pia. I am relieved to hear your voice - I have been trying for some time to establish communication with the Timor."

I find my own voice. "T'Pia? Sir, we thought you were dead."

"Self-evidently, that is inaccurate." Yes, that is definitely T'Pia. "The Tapiola and the Tempest were hit by an intense biolytic field. In the case of the Tapiola, our particle conversion equipment prevented it from being fatal to the crew, but the ship herself is disabled, perhaps irretrievably. Circumstances have led me to become separated from my crew. What is your status?"

I explain, as quickly as I can - which isn't all that quick; there is a lot of detail for both of us to assimilate. At the end of it, T'Pia says, "The situation, overall, is fractionally less grave than I had envisaged. May I speak with one of your Solanae associates?"

"They're here, now. They can hear everything we're saying."

"Very well," says T'Pia. "If the situation were less difficult, I would be glad of an opportunity to discuss your history and society, and the history and workings of the sphere, with you. This is a fascinating opportunity for our two cultures to reach a rapprochement. Unfortunately, the presence of the Voth constrains us to consider matters of urgent practicality. How reliable is your communications and sensor network?"

"The Home's communications are... usually reliable," says Siffaith.

"But there have been disruptions," Dyegh adds. "Disturbances."

"That is unsurprising. I noted significant damage to regions of the spire during my own travels. My concern is a practical one. It would be helpful to extend your communications radius to the exterior of the spire, along the surface of the sphere, for the purposes of establishing contact with my crew. They represent a resource which would be of value in this conflict, and I am, naturally, anxious over their safety. Currently, they are gathered in an amphitheatre on the sphere's surface, which can hardly be considered defensible against Voth assault."

"I... see," says Siffaith. "If we can find that building -"

"I know the one she means," says Dyegh. "We can connect with our own transporters."

"The transport pad at that location failed after transporting me," says T'Pia.

"That need not matter," says Dyegh, "I can make adjustments...." His voice descends into a muttering that the translator can't process.

"Sir." Pearl speaks up. "I have an idea. If we can link in the Solanae transporters, we could try transferring your crew to the Tempest."

"A viable suggestion," says T'Pia. "Conditions would be crowded, but it would be useful to have the resources of another operational starship at our disposal. How badly damaged is the Tempest?"

"By now, the auto-repair systems should have cleared the burned-out bio-neural gel packs," Pearl says, "and that's the only significant structural damage she took. I have her prefix codes, I can transmit them as needed."

I think about this. It seems kind of ghoulish, with whatever's left of Tempest's crew still littering the decks - but the situation might compel us to be ghoulish, and anyway, an emotional argument like that will cut no ice with T'Pia.

"I will put the matter to my crew," she says now. "In any case, it will be helpful to have the Solanae transporters at our disposal. We will need the mobility advantage."

"We can try beaming you over here, or to the Timor, sir," says Pearl.

"Contra-indicated. The Voth are moving, and they are very close. It is probable that they will take some action against the Timor, and in the confined space of the docking bay, the heavy weapons on their battlemechs will be effective against her. I am currently in what appears to be a control and oversight station for the docking bay. There are available resources here, and I will attempt to deploy them."

Noonday Sun 23

"I do not trust them," Dyegh whispered.

Siffaith glanced around. The two aliens were some distance off, hunched over a console together, apparently conferring. The dark, hairy one, M'eioi, was checking some hand-held device, while the mechanical, Pearl, studied the console readouts. They looked strange, alien... but were they dangerous? Though that weapon still rode on Pearl's hip....

"I am not sure we have a choice," he said to Dyegh. "They are here now, and I do not see how to eject them."

"It is as I said it would be. Temporary alliance, followed no doubt by another, and then another, until -" He was visibly trembling. Siffaith reached out and touched his arm.

"Until what, Dyegh?"

"Until they become as the old gods. The Iconians. The Iconians owned the Progenitors, Siffaith."

Siffaith looked from him to the two aliens, and back again. "That will not happen, Dyegh," he said firmly.

"How can you prevent it? You cannot trust them, Siffaith!"

"I can prevent it very easily," said Siffaith. "We tell them no, Dyegh. That is all we need to do. Even if they threaten with their weapon, they cannot follow through on that threat. They need our specialist knowledge of the Home's systems, and if we withhold it, they can do nothing."

"They are learning," said Dyegh. "They are not like the People, Siffaith." He made a swift, dismissive gesture in Tyonovon's direction. "They have quick minds and a willingness to acquire knowledge. How soon will it be before they no longer need us? How soon -"

"I think they can be trusted," Tyonovon said suddenly. Siffaith and Dyegh both turned towards her. "They did not kill. The others, the Voth, they killed, wantonly... People, who had offered them no harm. But these two - I do not believe they take pleasure in killing. I think they are what they say they are - peaceful people, perhaps driven to violence if the need arises, but not killers by nature."

"They killed one of the Voth, if your account is correct," said Dyegh.

"But the Voth was a killer. It is -" Tyonovon waved her claws, searching for words. "It is different, Dyegh."

"Self-defence," said Siffaith. "We are killing in that cause, Dyegh. Or, at least, I am sending the swarmers out to kill on our behalf, and that amounts to the same thing."

"Even if that is true," said Dyegh, "their own self-interest may lead them to take control of the Home. To use it for their own purposes, not for ours."

"They have laws -" Tyonovon began.

"They say they have laws," said Dyegh. "Can we believe them? Can we believe they will hold to these laws, if they see advantage in breaking them?"

Tyonovon made another exasperated gesture. "We do not know. We cannot know. But perhaps - perhaps we must trust, Dyegh. One thing we do know. The Voth will take the Home if they are not stopped."

A footstep sounded on the deck plates nearby. It was the dark-furred alien, M'eioi. "I hope I'm not interrupting," she said.

"What is it you want?" Dyegh was fairly vibrating with suspicion, Siffaith saw. Did the alien notice? She was so very different from the People....

"We've finished setting the security measures in place around your populated sectors," said M'eioi. "I think the force shields will hold against any portable weaponry the Voth can bring to bear - unless they use the firepower of their ship against the spire, in which case all bets are off anyway. But the shields will stop antiproton fire from a personal weapon, or the larger cannons mounted on a cyborg dinosaur or a battlemech." She touched one black, hairy hand to her face, smoothing the long whiskers that grew above her mouth. "Part of the problem, I guess, is going to be persuading the rest of your people to stay in the safe areas. You'll have to talk to them yourselves, I think. They won't want to take orders from weird aliens like me and Pearl, that's for sure."

"That can be arranged," said Siffaith. "There are communicators, we can make announcements."

"Even so," M'eioi continued, "the secure areas will only stay secure if we can maintain the force fields, which means keeping the power running throughout the spire. If the Voth can hit critical distribution nodes or generators, we're in trouble. Pearl and I have been running some scans, and, well, there's some stuff we'd like your thoughts on."

"What is it?" Siffaith asked.

"There seem to be some problems already, balancing the power load on the spire's systems. It's as if some parts of the distribution network - your equivalent to our EPS grid - has failed already. Like - sections of it burned out, or something."

Dyegh made a wordless sound. M'eioi started at it, and stared at him. "It is - possible," he said. "It is something I feared - the Home's systems are very old, the whole of the Land is very old - it is possible that the Voth damaged something when they subverted my systems -"

Or that Dyegh's ambitious project had already stressed the Home to its limits, Siffaith thought but did not say.

"If you could come and take a look at our sensor readings," said M'eioi, "you might be better able to identify the problem areas and work around them. You're the ones who know this place and its systems, after all."

"Yes," said Dyegh, "it is our Home." He shuffled towards the console, M'eioi walking at his side, Siffaith and Tyonovon following.

The mechanical, Pearl, turned to face them, metal eyes gleaming. They looked deeply forbidding to Siffaith. "I've set up the power flow diagrams," she said. "You can probably see the problem areas already -"

"The north-east capacitor banks at level 22372," Dyegh muttered. "Always a problem - I will initiate automatic reset.... There are others, though, more than there should be. And what is that?" He tapped the display with one claw. Siffaith leaned in, peered at the images, tried to make sense of them.

"Self-contained power sources," said M'eioi. "Not part of your network, but they're registering anyway. That one is almost certainly the Voth ship."

"There are others. Smaller ones. Let me refine this...." Dyegh's claws almost caressed the icons on the console. Siffaith could not quite make out the sequence of instructions, but a schematic of the Home glowed to life in mid-air, speckled with bright dots in seemingly random patterns. There was a brilliant group of them in one place... a smaller grouping lower down, inside the Home... individual dots moving about....

"Voth battlemechs," said M'eioi, "they must be. Dyegh, this is invaluable. It's giving a complete real-time readout of the disposition of Voth forces inside the spire."

"What is that group there?" Dyegh asked, indicating the smaller grouping. "It is radiating on somewhat different frequencies from the Voth...."

"It must be my ship, the Timor. If we could get a message through to them," said M'eioi, "it'd be a big help."

"Your communicators do not work?" asked Siffaith.

"I can't break through all the additional interference since we raised the internal defensive shielding. If we could interface our combadges with your comms net, now -"

"It should be possible," said Dyegh. He gave a wheezing sigh. "It will divert more computer resources from what should be our main aims... but it should be possible."

"Let's try it," said M'eioi. "Please."

"Another thought, sir," said Pearl. "If we can extend this scan outside the spire, we might be able to locate the Tempest and the Tapiola."

M'eioi's head bobbed; a gesture of assent, Siffaith realized. "Those ships will have resources we can use, too."

"You ask much," Dyegh complained, but he started to tap in commands on the console. "I will set up the display to discriminate between you and the Voth... and I will extend the range.... That is strange." He pointed with one claw. "Very faint, but... one of your power sources. Not ours, and not Voth. And some distance from your ship... I do not see how they can have reached that point, with the security fields up...."

M'eioi peered at the tiny glowing point near the tip of Dyegh's claw. "A straggler, maybe. Lost like I was. If we can open comms, maybe we should talk to them, guide them home...."

---

"We are encountering heavy resistance from swarmer groups." Davrak Karzis was using a light pointer to place icons within a three-D schematic of the spire. Stannark glowered at the display. A depressing percentage of the map was still blank - unexplored, and outside Voth control. "We have also encountered force-field barriers, at the following locations." The spec ops analyst sprinkled a different set of icons about the map. "The fields are resistant to even our heaviest mobile weapons. I am forced to an annoying conclusion."

Stannark grunted. "Which is?" He turned around, to pace irritably across the command deck of the Gendratis.

"That the Starfleet primates and the Solanae arthropods are combining forces. Starfleet cannot have command of the spire's systems, cannot erect these force shields... but the Solanae appear very well informed as to our troops' capabilities."

Stannark's scowl deepened. "Our capabilities are insufficient. I should have been assigned a Viriosaurus Rex for this mission."

"The heavy dinosaurians are needed for combat missions on the ground. And I do not think a Viriosaurus could easily traverse some of these tunnels."

"It would have the capacity to defeat any force shield! And in situations like these, they can make their own tunnels. It is no secret that I am unhappy with the management of the ground battle zones. I was discussing this matter with General Folluma, during his last hospitalization -" Stannark stopped. He took a deep breath. "Well. I must work with what I have. What are our options?"

"Computer subversion, of the type which gave us control of the tetryon emitters. It will be slow and chancy, though. The Solanae will be alert to the possibility, and Starfleet can advise them on some of our protocols. They have experience, painfully gained."

"Implement what measures you can. What other choices are there?"

"Our troops can secure segments of the spire's power generation and distribution network. They cannot generate force shields if they have no power - and, if we shut down their replicators, they will eventually run out of security swarmers, too."

"Eventually," Stannark repeated, in tones of contempt. "No. The spire is too large, my troops too thinly spread. Striking at their power supplies would take too long."

Karzis turned his head. There was something quizzical in his expression, even though his eyes were hidden behind his implants. "Then I am bereft of suggestions, Commander."

"I have an idea," said Stannark. "Hostages. Take a substantial number of the Solanae arthropods prisoner, and use them to compel cooperation."

"A wise move, Commander, but I fear it may be impractical. I would be, frankly, amazed if the bulk of the arthropod population was not already safely hidden behind those force shields."

Stannark stomped across the command deck once again. "Then we will try a different approach. You suspect Starfleet is cooperating with the Solanae?"

"It make sense. And I did see Admiral M'eioi in company with one of them." Karzis rubbed his neck with a rueful expression.

"Then we will break that cooperation by taking Starfleet hostages. One of the advance scouting parties reported radiation emissions and comms chatter consistent with the mammals' activities. I believe we have a provisional location for the absurd Admiral M'eioi's ship." Stannark turned, and stabbed one taloned digit into the holographic map. "Somewhere near here. We will send a squadron, in force, and we will find the Timor, and take it."

Noonday Sun 22

T'Pia

After approximately half an hour of walking through dark tunnels, I come to a region where the wall lights still work. I close the tricorder. The power cell has considerable, but not infinite, endurance, and I may well need the device later.

I am not clear what my goals are, at this point. To evade the Voth and the security swarmers, certainly; beyond that, I must take whatever opportunities offer themselves. It would, naturally, be helpful to make contact with the Timor, or the survivors of the Tapiola - I hope no one has been so ill-advised as to follow me onto the transport pad, assuming that Twosani Dezin has managed to reactivate it.

The possibility of making contact with whatever agency controls this spire... is an intriguing one. However, I see no immediate prospect of this. I have seen no living things in all my walking.

In the circumstances, the isolation is - oppressive. There are tasks which I need to perform, urgently, and I have no way to go about them. It is frustrating. And that, too, demands that I reprove myself. Frustration is an emotional reaction; it accomplishes nothing; it should not be permitted to influence my actions.

Just because I am alone, with no one to see or judge me, is no reason to allow my mental discipline to lapse. It might be argued, in fact, that discipline is most essential when its absence might go unobserved.

I am still musing on this matter when I come to another round door, which opens before me in the normal manner.

The room beyond is brightly lit, not just by the light sources in the walls and ceiling, but also by glowing screens and holographic displays. It is a circular chamber, with a pit-like depression in the centre, and rounded consoles all around the walls. My eyes narrow. Evidently, this is an active control centre of some kind - I must be on my guard for security swarmers, or for the unknown occupants of the spire.

But there is no sign of life, or of swarmers. The displays constantly change, updating themselves, but that flickering is the only illusion of motion in the room. I step forwards, warily.

The central pit has a transparent floor - perhaps a force field, though there is none of the watery rippling that characterizes Solanae force fields. It could be transparent aluminium, or some variant thereof. I walk towards it, and look down.

There is an immense space beneath me, and some way down - it is hard to estimate how far, exactly - there is a flat platform jutting out of the wall. And on that platform -

I kneel down, then bend forwards, bringing my face as close to the transparent floor as possible. There is something, in among all the grey and black and matte-finished Solanae technology, that gleams, down there, on the platform. Something shaped like a rounded dart.

It is the Timor. I am - certain of it, within acceptable limits of error. I have come to some sort of control station above the internal spacedock where M'eioi's ship has come to rest.

I stand up, slap my combadge. "T'Pia to Timor. Come in, please. This is Admiral T'Pia calling the USS Timor."

No response. My combadge should have automatically detected Timor's comms carrier waves, tuned itself to the other ship's network... but there is no response.

I chide myself. Obviously, this control station must be carefully shielded against unauthorized transmissions. But if I can find a way through those shields -

I turn to inspect the consoles ranged along the walls. I have no idea what most of the data streams are telling me. I move from console to console, looking for something - anything - that I recognize.

One workstation is showing a schematic of the docking platform below me, and there is no doubt left, now. On the 3-D display, the inarguable shape of a Dauntless-class starship appears, surrounded by a cloud of status icons, some of which I can read. The system has registered the Timor as an unauthorized but harmless intrusion. I am inclined to worry over what these automated devices might do, if they decided the ship was other than harmless.

Communications. This area must have communications. If it is the local traffic control station for the spacedock, then there must be a way to communicate with visiting ships.

I know what Solanae internal communications stations look like. I find this one, on the fourth console I check. I touch the glowing symbols on the panel, tapping out the sequence to activate comms -

A red icon glows in the air before me. Security lockout. The system is demanding a passcode, one that I do not have. And I dare not tamper with these systems, in case I draw hostile attention either to myself or the Timor.

I repress the urge to slam my fist onto the console in frustration.

Alternative channels. Any comms station has backups, has spare capacity, unused frequencies - I set to work, exercising the utmost caution. I key in another sequence, and a panel pops open at the edge of the console, revealing another set of controls. An emergency backup of some kind? That is hopeful - such a system would, necessarily, have little or no security, once engaged.

I touch the controls, searching the available frequencies. The control readouts are calibrated in an unfamiliar notation - I find what must be a subspace channel, one which is showing significant activity. I punch in codes to transmit on that frequency.

For a moment, there is no response, and then there is a terrible squealing and snarling of electronic interference. I suspect the communicator is trying to send an automated handshake using protocols which the other system does not recognize. Possibly, one or the other has adaptive systems which can resolve the problem. If not, I must consult my tricorder and hope that I have data libraries on file which will enable me to make manual adjustments.

The squealing stops, and I hear a voice. "- clear this channel! I repeat, you are encroaching on Joint Command subspace traffic, you are directed to clear this channel!"

Joint Command. The device is an emergency comms system, for reaching out beyond the spire itself - and Joint Command's subspace comms were the first active frequency it found. I suppose I am fortunate: I could be talking to the Voth instead. "This is Admiral T'Pia of Starfleet," I say. "I am declaring an emergency. Connect me with Subcommander Kaol, immediately, maximum priority."

"Admiral T'Pia? What -?" The voice falls silent for a moment. Then it demands, "What is going on?"

"I am declaring an emergency. I have accessed this channel using a Solanae comms station. I do not know how long I can keep this channel open." If I have drawn attention, I could be running from swarmers or the Voth at any moment. "The situation is grave. Connect me with Subcommander Kaol, immediately."

The voice - it sounds like a Romulan male - evidently belongs to someone with some degree of intelligence. "Calling Subcommander Kaol now. I hope, for your sake, this is not a hoax."

"It is not. Thank you for your prompt action."

Another pause, agonizingly long. Then, finally, a voice I know. "Admiral T'Pia?" Kaol demands. "What is happening? Where are you?"

"I am at a control station in the anomalous spire. The situation is grave. The Voth are here, and they, or some other agency, have disabled the Tempest and the Tapiola. I was attempting to contact the Timor, but happened upon Joint Command frequencies instead."

"We can send an immediate relief force. What do you require?"

I have to phrase my response carefully, bearing in mind Kaol's informal authority. "I would not recommend that course of action. Whatever forces were used against our ships might be used against any number of others, with equal efficacy. Any relief force might well be incapacitated in its turn."

"What is the nature of the weapon? Is there a defence?"

"Someone - most probably the Voth - is using the technology of this spire to generate intense tetryonic fields. The Tempest was subjected to the field, and is most probably disabled, with total crew casualties. The Tapiola's particle converter protected the crew, but exploded in the process, damaging the ship itself, possibly irreparably. It is conceivable that a vessel with a massively reinforced particle converter might be able to approach the spire safely, but to my knowledge we have no such ships or converters available."

"What about the Timor?"

"The Timor entered the spire and is intact, but I am unable to make contact due to the high levels of internal energy shielding. Contacting the Timor will now be my first priority. They must be made aware of the danger, and the resources of the ship may be invaluable at this stage."

Kaol's voice sounds anguished. "What can we do?"

"Regrettably, Subcommander, I do not see any immediate way you could be of assistance at this point. If you have sufficient stealthed troopships, it might be possible for you to mount a discreet rescue mission to the base of this spire, and retrieve the crew of the Tapiola. Even that, though, would require you to be very sure that your stealth systems were equal to the task. I mean no disparagement of your people's cloaking technologies, but -"

"But Voth sensors are superior to ours. I know." Kaol sighs. "What is the Voth strength?"

"At least one Bulwark-class vessel. Their military resources, though, are probably a secondary consideration, if they have control of the spire's systems. I should note that the spire appears to have suffered significant internal damage, perhaps from misuse or overloading of its systems."

"Oh, this gets better and better!" Romulans have no philosophical requirement to contain their feelings of exasperation. "You tell me the situation is grave, but there is nothing I can do -"

"But you should be informed, Subcommander. I would suggest immediate research regarding the nullification of tetryon discharges. If I can contact the Timor, I can use her data transmission channels to send you the records of the Tapiola's incapacitation. This Solanae system, I regret to say, does not have such capacity. I submit to you that my priorities must be to gather what information I can, and to contact Admiral M'eioi's ship and arrange for you to receive that information. With that, and the resources of Joint Command, I am sure you will be able to formulate an appropriate response." I pause, then add, "Also, I must make what arrangements I can to protect my crew."

"Of course, of course," says Kaol. "I suppose you are right - some spire-based weapon could wipe out a fleet as easily as your two ships. I will have to, ahh, refer this matter upwards. If the Voth gain the capacity to disable our ships at will -"

Then our hold on the sphere - and our lifeline to the Delta Quadrant - would be gone. "The situation, as I have said, is grave. I will do all that I can to assist. I should not delay much longer - this channel is not secure, and if my transmission is detected, my own situation is apt to become untenable."

"Are you even sure you can reach the Timor? That the ship is still intact?"

"I can actually see the Timor from this room. The spire's internal shielding prevents me from making contact. I will confess that I find that... disagreeable."

I hear Kaol mutter something; it is indistinct, but sounds very like "Vulcans!"

"I will go now," I tell him. "I cannot say when next I will contact you - I hope that, next time, it will be from the comms station of the Timor. However, I cannot risk further discussion at this time." Actually, I simply have no more stomach for argument. Kaol has to be informed, but there is nothing he can do to help. He must be as frustrated as I am -

I switch off the transmitter, pace back to the centre of the room, and look down. Perhaps not quite as frustrated as I am. The Timor is beneath my feet - no more than two kilometres down. I can see her, but I cannot talk to her.

I kneel down on the transparent floor. Perhaps there is some way to generate a visual signal - if they see a bright light blinking in a regular pattern from above, they may investigate. There must, surely, be a way I can create a bright light.

I raise my tricorder. The imaging function can be used as a visual magnifier - if I can get a good look at the Timor, I should be able to aim a light where someone will notice it. But the tricorder is not designed, ergonomically, for this sort of application. The image wavers and trembles as I try to point it at the starship. I take a deep breath and hold it; I wrap my left hand around my right wrist, steadying it; I aim the tricorder's sensor head at the Timor; I discover I have misaligned it, and am looking at a stretch of wall instead....

There are windows in the wall, and shapes moving behind them. I frown. With a careful, awkward motion of my right thumb, I increase the magnification.

The shapes are not security swarmers. Nor are they Starfleet. They are big, lumbering, reptilian; some with scales, some with shining alloy armour. Dinosaurs, and saurian battlemechs.

The Voth are moving.