Nelson Karas appears to be very interested in the toes of his boots. His colleague, Lieutenant Vasque, is staring straight ahead with a self-consciously wooden expression. I sit quietly behind my ready room desk, with Twosani Dezin standing by my side, and I regard them both with quite deliberate impassivity.
After what I judge to be a psychologically effective interval of time, I say, "Please explain, gentlemen."
"Sir," says Vasque, and stops. Commander Karas seems even more engrossed in the state of his boots.
"Am I required to be more specific?" I ask. "How many matters are there which require explanation?"
"We were reading off the performance data of King Estmere," Karas says. "We thought -"
"They've got more experience with Tholian drive systems than we do, sir," says Vasque. "We figured we could, well, adapt their techniques -"
"- they get twenty per cent more out of their engines than we do, easily, sir -"
"- and they have designs for the plasma manifold on file, and -"
"- it looked like it'd be easy enough to install -"
It is either feast or famine, it seems, when it comes to getting these humans to talk. "You copied some modifications of the impulse plasma manifold from King Estmere, and implemented them on our drive systems. Is that a broadly accurate summary of your actions?"
"Uh," says Vasque, "yes, sir."
"I see." I raise my right eyebrow. "Were these modifications successful?"
That fazes them. They exchange puzzled glances. "Uh," says Vasque, "sir -"
"I believe the answer you are looking for, Mr. Vasque, is no," I say. "I think I have a certain command of human idiom, through my exposure to your culture. Am I correct in saying that an apt description of the plasma manifold, in its current condition, would be blown to smithereens?"
"Yes, sir," says Vasque helplessly.
"Turns out the Recluse's channels have a different cross-sectional profile from an Orb Weaver's," says Karas. "Same area, but a different profile. So -"
"So, when you activated the EPS stream," I interrupt, "it was partially obstructed, and that obstruction caused interference, heat build-up, and explosive failure."
"Yes, sir."
"It seems to me," I say, "that there are lessons to be learned from this incident. I will summarize them. Firstly, this difference in cross-sectional profile should have been spotted immediately, on a visual check. It is important to make these visual checks. Secondly, low-power testing would have caught the problem, before the heat build-up reached the point of causing damage. It is important to carry out adequate low-power testing. Thirdly, and perhaps most significantly, Vice Admiral Shohl is a member of the Experimental Engineering Group, and I am not. It is important - I would suggest, it is of prime importance - to leave her engineering staff to detonate parts of her ship, rather than experimenting with mine. Do you have any comment to make on this summary?"
"Sir," says Karas, "no, sir."
"Excellent. I am glad that we are in agreement. Now, to specifics. This ship is currently without main impulse power. This is due to your actions. It is therefore appropriate that you should remedy that situation, and expeditiously."
"Sir?"
"Start repairs, gentlemen. In person. Now."
They exchange glances again. "Yes, sir," says Karas, and salutes.
"Sir," says Vasque, "I'm sorry that -"
"Apologies are unnecessary, Lieutenant. Dismissed."
And they go. Twosani watches them leave, with a slight smile on her face. "So," she says. "Further action?"
"Disciplinary? I see no reason. They are, essentially, capable officers."
"They are radiating relief right now," says Twosani.
"We have been here over two weeks. Science division is busy, attempting to interpret the data from the facility. Operations and engineering are at a loose end. I am, in a sense, gratified that they have found a potentially productive outlet for their frustrated energies."
"I've seen the state of the engine room," says Twosani. "It wasn't that productive."
"An error was made. Errors happen, despite our best efforts. There were no injuries, or I would have had to take a sterner line. Their intentions were good - laudable, even."
Twosani nods. "No argument, sir. For whatever it's worth, I think you handled them pretty well."
"Thank you." I turn to my desk console. "I believe it is time for the command conference call. Please remain. You should be cognizant of all relevant decisions."
"Yes, sir." Twosani steps discreetly to the side, though, as I set up the viewscreens and open the channels.
On the bridge of the Falcon, Ronnie Grau looks bored: on the station itself, Tylha Shohl looks tired. "Let's face facts, guys," Ronnie says. "This is a bust."
"I'm starting to think the same myself," says Tylha. "We've gathered a lot of data, but I can't see that we're getting anywhere with it." She looks hopefully towards me. "Unless you know any different."
"Regrettably," I say, "I do not. We are still processing the salvaged data, but as yet no significant correlations have emerged between Dr. Tamik's experiments and the records of the Stygmalian Rift."
"Right," says Ronnie, "right." She takes a deep breath; evidently, there is an emotional charge associated with her next utterance. "So, the next step, I guess, is - back to the Rift. Take the data we've collected here, and see if anything matches up with the state of space around the Rift's site, as it currently stands."
I believe I can understand her reluctance. The Stygmalian Rift constitutes a chapter of Ronnie's life that she must, surely, prefer to think of as closed. However, that is not relevant. "I believe you are correct," I say. "We must make preparations for departure. Tapiola, unfortunately, is temporarily disabled due to an accident in engineering."
"I can send teams -" Tylha begins.
"There is no need. Thank you. Repairs are in hand. In the meantime, I will start to beam up my science teams on the station."
"Makes sense," says Ronnie. "Let's bring our people back and be on our way."
"I'd like to keep hold of your Commander Saval for a little while," says Tylha. "There's some, well, clearing up I'd like to do before we leave."
"Clearing up?" asks Ronnie.
"First," says Tylha, "I want to make one last sweep of the available databanks, to be sure we haven't missed anything. Saval knows the setup well enough to spot any details.... Then, I want to do a proper security lockdown of this facility. I do not want someone coming along after us and getting a hold on Dr. Tamik's plans. I'm going to keep Klerupiru here, to do a low-level data wipe of the computer cores, and Mr. M to handle the physical security. That should be enough to -" A chirp comes from her combadge, and she taps it. "Shohl."
A new image appears in a separate window on the viewer; the blue face of King Estmere's Bolian communications officer. "Sorry to interrupt, skipper," he says, "but we've got a situation. Distress call out towards the NSS-8762 nebula."
Everyone becomes instantly more alert. "Details?" says Tylha.
"Commercial vessel SS Makela," says the Bolian. "They say they struck a subspace inversion at the fringe of the nebula, and had a warp field imbalance that blew out sensors and sent them on an out-of-control spin through the gas clouds. They've dropped to sublight and are making repairs, themselves, but while they were zooming around, several of the passengers panicked and launched shuttles and escape pods. So -"
"So now there's a bunch of civilians scattered all over that nebula in lifeboats," Ronnie interrupts, "and someone's got to go out and gather the lost sheep into the fold, am I right?"
"That's pretty much it, sir, yes."
"Oh, brother," says Ronnie.
Tylha's face is calculating. "We'd need multiple ships for a wide area search," she says. "The obvious thing to do is... send T'Pia's frigate groups. I guess Tapiola would be ideal for coordinating the operation, but if her engines are down.... F'hon, tell Anthi to take King Estmere out there to handle the search. Our sensor arrays are pretty good, and our own Mesh Weavers can back up the frigate groups."
"I concur," I say. "I will expedite repairs and join the search group as soon as Tapiola is fully mobile."
Ronnie makes a face. "I'd better keep Falcon on station for the present, then. Best to have one fully operational ship here, and besides, kiddo, you will need a lift out when you're finished with what you're doing."
"Logical," I say. "I do not expect my repairs to take long. I will issue appropriate orders to the frigate commanders." I glance at Twosani. "Signal Commander Trukh on the Vauxhall to make preparations."
"All right, then," says Tylha. "We'll speak again once Tapiola's ready to depart."
And she cuts the channel. After a moment, Ronnie does the same. I consider for a few seconds, then touch the intercom panel. "T'Pia to Commander Karas."
"Karas here, sir." His tone sounds guarded.
"A distress call has been received, and we must make ready to answer it. Please expedite your repairs, as much as is compatible with safe practice."
"Uh, yes, sir."
"Please indicate an approximate time for completion, if you are able."
"Uh - going by the book, sir, maybe three, four hours. If we cut some corners -"
"Negative. We will proceed with urgency, not with panic. There is a fundamental dictum of emergency response situations - we help no one by becoming casualties ourselves. Carry on the repairs according to protocols." I have already had one explosion in the engine room today, I neither need nor desire another.
"Yes, sir." Twosani, meanwhile, has already made contact with the frigates. Everything seems to be going well, then.
---
The repairs are completed in three hours and twenty-four minutes - a very creditable figure, for a rough estimate requested at short notice. I request standard tests to be run before we engage full drives, naturally.
King Estmere and the two frigate groups have already departed, travelling towards the nebula at maximum warp. Falcon is some little way from us, barely visible with the naked eye, turning in a protective tight circle around the Delta Gracilis station. I look down at my readouts. The power values for the impulse engines are nominal. All is well.
"Signal King Estmere via subspace that we are preparing for departure," I say. "Then contact Vice Admiral Shohl and ask if she is ready to be transported from the station."
"Yes, sir," says Twosani. I return to checking the state of the impulse drive. I do not wish there to be any more faults -
"We have a problem, sir." I turn to Twosani, who is frowning. "I can't raise King Estmere on subspace radio - there seems to be a lot of interference -"
"Let me check." I call up the requisite data on the command interface. The layout of the Tholian bridge helps, here, I think; the centre station is designed so that the ship's captain has access to all systems at his or her fingertips - or its claw tips, in the case of a Tholian. It takes only a moment to confirm that subspace is riddled with interference, sufficient to blank out communications.
"I am puzzled," I say. "This interference could only be created by some high-energy event that affects subspace. Sufficiently violent radiation or gravimetric discharges could generate vast amounts of radio noise... but I do not detect any other signs of such violent events. Curious."
"What do we do now, sir?"
"Signal the Falcon via laser link." At this range, light-speed lag is not a factor. "We will travel outwards, in case this disruption is only localized... and we will endeavour to ascertain its cause."
Tapiola turns, her drive functioning smoothly and efficiently, and points herself towards the stars. I consider the data readouts again, and repress a frown. This is genuinely unusual. The interference is blanketing local space, and it is peculiarly uniform in intensity and regular in frequency.
"Signal from Falcon, sir."
"On screen." The image is not visibly degraded, compared with conventional transmission methods. At this distance, the laser link is more than adequate. Ronnie Grau's face shows an expression of concern.
"We're showing the same as you," she says. "Subspace is swamped with interference, covering most of the immediate volume."
"Quite," I say. "I am at something of a loss as to how to account for it."
"Yeah, well," says Ronnie, "I've had an idea or two. I'm not so green as I'm cabbage looking, you know. I can tell a hawk from a handsaw when the wind is southerly, and I can smell a rat when someone shoves one up my nose."
It takes me a second or so to divine her meaning. "You suspect our communications are being deliberately jammed."
"Got it in one. So listen. I'm going to red alert, suggest you do the same, and start scanning carefully in the direction you're going in. Meantime, I'll try and get a message through to Tylha on the station somehow...." She scratches her head. "Dunno how, right now. Her combadge is probably tuned to subspace frequencies. Never mind, I'll work something out." She cuts communications abruptly.
"Her hypothesis would account for some of the available data," I say. "Red alert."
Alarm sirens sound. I dismiss the readouts from the comms station, call up the tactical display of local space instead. It is empty, at first sight, apart from the icons for the Tapiola and the Falcon, the station itself, and the scattering of asteroidal debris. As I lean forward and inspect it more closely, though, a fugitive spark of - something - catches my eye.
"Raise shields," I say. "Alter course, one five mark seven. Active scans on that vector."
Tapiola turns, slightly, onto the new heading. The sensor contact - whatever it was - flickers back into life, steadies, is replaced by the icon representing a solid contact. The actual nature of that contact, though, is still undetermined.
"Scanning," says Pascale from the tactical console. The android's voice is mechanically calm. "Positive contact confirmed. Power sources, metallic composition, no life signs - Sir, it's moving."
The icon on the display springs suddenly into life, accelerating towards us at a rate no living creature could possibly tolerate. "An automated mine," I say. "Target it and destroy it. If we cannot hit it in time - All hands. Brace for impact."
There is a deep, distant grunting sound as the tetryon banks discharge. The dot on the screen suddenly expands, is replaced by a cluster of markers indicating debris and an expanding radiation cloud.
"A transphasic mine, sir," says Pascale. "Trying to get a match for its emissions profile on detonation -"
"Hard about," I order. Where there is one mine, there must be more.
"Incoming hail from the Falcon," says Twosani.
"On screen."
Ronnie Grau's face is grim. "Saw the fireworks from here. What's up?"
"We intercepted a transphasic mine. It is logical to assume that it was one element in a minefield. We must determine how best to sweep for mines, clear a path, and depart. Have you established contact yet with the station?"
"Got an automated transmission going on radio frequency. It'll show up on the station's scans, it's just a matter of how long before Tylha notices it."
"Very well. We are running analyses of the explosion pattern and debris now, in an attempt to determine the mine's origin -"
"Oh, don't worry about that. Now we've stepped on one, the owners will be showing up in person pretty darn soon."
"If they have deployed mines without our notice, they must have been operating from cloaked ships -"
"Well, duh," says Ronnie. Evidently her emotional response to the situation has overriden her - already limited - capacity for tact.
"She's right, sir," says Twosani. "I have sensor contacts -" She whispers something under her breath, and her face is suddenly very pale.
"Seeing 'em myself now," says Ronnie. The rash of new icons on the tactical display is, indeed, very obvious. "The Gorn. Of course. The Gorn do so love their minefields."
"Reading one Zilant class battleship," Pascale reports, "three Varanus and four Draguas support vessels, four Phalanx science vessels, twelve Tuatara cruisers -"
"Incoming hail on subspace," says Twosani. Her expression indicates emotional turmoil. I am trying very hard to ensure that mine does not.
"Let's hear them," says Ronnie grimly.
A new image forms in the viewer. It is that of a large Gorn with blue-grey scales and very brilliant yellow eyes. Gorn emotional states are not easy for mammals to read, but this one certainly appears to be confident and assured.
"Federation vessels in the vicinity of the Delta Gracilis research station. This is General Ssurt, aboard the battleship Zo'ar. You are englobed in a minefield, your communications are cut off, and you are heavily outnumbered. It is necessary that you surrender to me the person of Vice Admiral Veronika Grau. Comply with my requirements, and no harm will come to you. Fail to comply, and the results will be... distressing."
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