We have found shelter, of sorts, in a large rounded structure, whose main entrance lay some three hundred metres from the shoreline. The structure is a large shallow dome, nearly a kilometre in overall diameter, with the roof of the dome removed over the central area. An amphitheatre, open to the sky, surrounded on all sides by shelving tiers of flat surfaces... the suggestion, inevitably, is that of a sporting arena, or perhaps a venue for the performing arts.
Is it possible to imagine the Solanae, or the Iconians, engaged in such pursuits? But, then, why might they not be? Both species were fully civilized beings, with all the trappings of civilization, including, presumably, the need for entertainment.
Our needs are more basic, however. The entrances to the arena are large, but they are few in number; we can establish a security perimeter at each one. It may not keep out whatever force wrecked the Tapiola, but it should be adequate to fend off roving predators or security swarmers. There are no Voth-style dinosaurian cyborgs outside, but there are large animals of some kind - the ecosystem of the sphere is fascinating, and I would be glad of the opportunity to study it, at some more opportune time.
We have set up temporary shelters - survival tents, or simple awnings - at various points inside the arena. We are dealing with our casualties, taking inventory of our supplies, searching the area for further resources. Shocked and disheartened as my crew might be, they are still acting like the Starfleet professionals that they are. I am inclined to regret that I cannot actively display the pride I feel in them.
I rub my forehead as I gaze through the huge circular hole in the roof. A medic ran a protoplaser and a dermal regenerator over my trifling injury, earlier. There is no sign of the cut, now, though the skin of my forehead feels taut and sensitive.
The sky is bright, over the dome. There are a few clouds, but the most obvious feature is the forest of impossibly tall, thin towers that surrounds us on all sides. It is disquieting, and I know why this is so. In any normal situation, on the surface of a planet, those towers would cast shadows, would throw a shade over this structure. But we are inside the sphere, and it is always noon, and the sun is always directly overhead.
There are a few faint wisps of cloud in the sky. We seem to have reached a region of clearer air, slightly away from the polluted industrial zone immediately surrounding the spire. Conceivably, the nearby artificial sea has something to do with this - its effect on the local meteorology must have been carefully calculated. A subject for further study, again.
My boots click on the age-old floor of the arena. There are markings on the floor, but they are in no language that I know, and they are worn nearly to invisibility in any case.
In the middle of the circular floor, Psaz and Pascale are looking upwards, scanning the sky. Psaz has a pair of binoculars; Pascale's metallic eyes need no such augmentation. I walk up to them. "Mr. Psaz. You are fully recovered?"
"Doc Lishin says so. Never mind that, anyway." The Tellarite turns, and hands me the binoculars. "Still haven't found the Tempest, if she's still in the air at all. But there's something, about thirty degrees off the zenith on bearing two-forty - I'm not sure what it is -"
"I haven't found the Tempest yet either, sir," says Pascale. "Possibly, on the course she was last on, she might have drifted to the other side of the spire from us."
"Possibly." I take the binoculars, adjust them, raise them to my eyes. It takes a few moments to find the bearings Psaz has indicated. I catch random glimpses of towers, of free-floating industrial units - the sort of thing one finds in the industrial zones of the sphere. But Psaz is right, there is something else there - something that leaves a trace, a contrail through the air. I take a deep breath, will my hands to be steady, my eyes to be clear. I centre the - thing - in the binoculars' field of view, and, with a cautious movement of one finger, step up the magnification.
The binoculars click, and the thing in the centre of the view seems to jump forward and enlarge itself hugely.
It is a dark shape against the sky, illuminated as it is from above. I am seeing it from beneath, so the small engineering hull is not visible - but the long, rounded shape of the silhouette is unmistakeable, despite that.
"The Voth. A Bulwark-class battleship. It appears to be closing on the spire."
"The Voth?" Psaz sounds aghast. "We can't hold off a Voth attack -"
"It may not prove necessary. I suspect, if they had wished to destroy us, they would have done so already. Still, we shall take what additional security measures we can." Though, as Psaz says, these would probably be futile against an assault by fully-equipped Voth shock troops. The fact is, they can take us or destroy us whenever they please.
"Does that mean the Voth had something to do with the attack on the ships?" asks Pascale.
"We must consider that possibility. The available data indicates that mechanisms inside the spire were employed, though. It may be that the Voth have some ability to manipulate those mechanisms - or that they are in contact with the putative inhabitants of the spire. Either eventuality would be unwelcome news."
"What are we going to do?" Psaz asks. He sounds agitated.
"Our resources are limited. Therefore, we must obtain help. We must contact the Tempest, or the Timor, or Joint Command. I see no immediate way to proceed in any other direction." I pause. "We could, I suppose, attempt to contact the Voth. I would predict no outcome from that except our immediate capture. I should regard that as an option of last resort only."
In truth, making contact with anyone is fraught with problems. We have some portable subspace transmitters, but subspace is riven with interference from the high-energy processes in the spire. The Tempest is almost certainly incapacitated, the Timor is inside the spire's dense energy shielding, and Joint Command is too far away.
I hand the binoculars back to Psaz. "Please continue the visual search for the Tempest," I say, "and also keep a watch on the Voth ship. It would be helpful to have some idea of their plans."
"What are we going to do, even if we do find the Tempest?" Psaz asks. But he takes the binoculars and raises them to his eyes, regardless.
"It will depend on her condition. If there is anything worth salvaging... teams might be able to hand -crank Tapiola's shuttle bay doors. The bay would flood, of course, but we might be able to get a shuttle out... it would be a risk worth taking, if we had a definite destination in mind."
"We'll keep looking, sir."
"Thank you, Mr. Psaz. I will now go and check on our other ongoing projects." I turn smartly on my heel and stride away. I think it is important to project an air of military efficiency, for the sake of morale.
I do not feel... military. I feel defeated, afraid, and desperate. But my feelings are not relevant to my actions.
Twosani Dezin and Nelson Karas are kneeling by a hexagonal hatch in the floor of the arena. Twosani has a tricorder in her hand, while Karas is working at the edge of the hatch with a magnetic probe. Both are frowning. Twosani looks up as I approach.
"There's definitely some sort of power flow down there, sir," she says. "It looks like there's something like a service tunnel under the arena."
"That seems a reasonable assumption. A venue such as this, whatever its purpose, must require many different kinds of services. Hopefully, communications were included. We have detected a Voth ship in the area, so alerting someone to our situation has become an even more imperative necessity."
"The Voth?" Twosani sighs, and shakes her head. "I guess there's nothing we can do that we're not already doing...."
"I'm trying to get this open," Karas grumbles. "I think I've cleared the mechanical locks, but... either there's something else holding it, or it's just stuck."
There is a shallow depression at the edge of the hatchway, space for a hand or a tool to be inserted. I crouch down, insert my right hand, brace myself with my left. I pull, hard, using the full strength of my arm, my torso, my legs. Vulcans are stronger than humans or Betazoids.... The hatch makes a grating, groaning noise, and comes free, tilting upwards. Twosani and Karas grab it. It is a simple slab of metal, not on hinges or other mountings, simply lying on top of a hole. The three of us move it aside.
"Simply stuck, I think," I say. I flex the fingers of my right hand.
Twosani is crouching by the hole, her left arm extended, holding her tricorder inside. "Looks like a service tunnel, all right," she says. "Room for a single humanoid to walk down... and surrounded by conduits... piping for fluids, though I couldn't tell you what, and what look like EPS waveguides...."
"Part of the sphere's power systems. There will generally be some sort of communications facility linked in at some point." I sit at the edge of the manhole, and lower myself gingerly into the tunnel. "Let us investigate further. Are there any life signs?"
"Not that I can see," says Twosani. "But, sir -"
"I will exercise caution." I have some equipment in my portable transporter buffer - and, really, I should transfer it all out, before the energy supply becomes depleted and the patterns degrade. I draw out a wristlight, activate it, send a cone of white light down into the tunnel. It is a narrow space lined with tubes of varying diameters, and that is all to be said about it. There are none of the more eccentric features of Solanae architecture - no force-field floors or unguarded high-energy transfer junctions, for instance. I suppose that is something to be grateful for.
By the time Twosani has lowered herself down the manhole, I have taken out my own tricorder and made some preliminary scans. "This tunnel leads to a larger chamber of some kind, roughly thirty-eight meters in that direction." I point down the tunnel, then back the other way. "There is another chamber in the other direction, at a distance of one thousand, one hundred and seventy meters. I believe it logical to investigate the closer one first."
"No argument, sir," says Twosani. Above us, Nelson Karas begins to clamber down.
"I will lead the way." There is not enough room for Twosani to pass me comfortably, in any case. She and Karas follow me closely as I make my way down the tunnel, shining the wristlight ahead of us, frequently consulting my tricorder as we go.
The tunnel debouches into a circular room, with another exit in the wall, directly facing us. There are familiar-looking Solanae consoles around the walls - dark now, though I am confident we can reactivate them. And, in the centre of the chamber -
"It looks like one of those teleporters," Twosani says, somewhat doubtfully.
"I concur." The design is familiar from other ground facilities - a single large raised disc, surrounded by free-standing columns. "We should investigate this," I say, stepping forwards. "If it can be reactivated, and its destination identified -"
I step onto the disc.
It flashes with light beneath me, and the air shimmers, and abruptly I am somewhere else. I blink. I turn quickly in a complete circle, shining the light around me, my tricorder out and scanning.
It is another chamber - larger than the one in the tunnel, with a high vaulted ceiling, round Solanae doors in the walls, and a row of narrow arches along one side of the curving wall. The transport station, though, is identical. I step off the disc.
There is no sign of life. The air seems colder and possibly thinner, here. I touch my combadge. "T'Pia to Dezin. Respond, please."
There is no answer. I am out of range, or blocked. Well, there are other possibilities, and I should try them. I touch the badge again. "T'Pia to Timor. Respond, please. T'Pia to any Starfleet vessels in range, respond, please."
No answer. Truthfully, I did not expect one.
There is a control console beside the transport station. I examine it. Much Solanae technology is still strange to us, but these consoles have become wearily familiar over time. I tap out a sequence, watch symbols glow on the panels - green, yellow, blue. "T'Pia calling Dezin. Respond, please."
There is a brief pause, then Twosani's voice says, "Sir! Are you all right?"
"I am uninjured. I appear to be in another, larger, chamber. I suspect it is some kind of local control station for the chambers in the service tunnel." That is only speculation, but it makes some sense. "At least we know the transporter works," I add.
"It did," Twosani says. "There was some kind of blow-out as soon as you vanished - some component burned out. We can find it and fix it, but maybe you'd better not risk coming back until -"
"That is logical. I will examine this station and see what I can learn, while you repair the unit. I think I am at some elevated location." I look at the row of narrow arches. "There are windows here. I will attempt to open them and get my bearings."
I cross over to the arches. There is a small control panel set into the wall - again, it is a familiar type. I touch the requisite symbols. Beside me, the panels set into the arches swing down and out, letting in more and colder air, and the bright, bleak sunlight of the sphere -
A shadow falls across the arches. I frown. I step to the nearest arch, and look out.
The vast rounded bulk of the Voth ship is blotting out the sun. The grey mass of metals and superdense ceramics is so close that I could almost reach out and touch the engineering hull.
Matters are, it seems, becoming yet more urgent.
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