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."
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