Timor falls gracefully out of the sky.
On the screen, I can see the inner surface of the sphere, its features expanding slowly before my ship's sleek rounded prow. I am spellbound, as ever. The interior of the sphere is larger than I can comprehend; a mind-boggling complexity of buildings, mountains, forests, deserts, oceans - each area resolving, as I study it, into a fractal swarm of smaller features. Each pixel on my viewer, at the moment, represents an area the size of a small continent. Over all, there is a faint whitish haze, the sign of weather systems in the sphere's interior atmosphere. There are storms out there the size of planets... and all I see is a faint haze.
The geography - for want of a better word - of the sphere is incomprehensible. Timor is mapping, as she drifts slowly back towards the surface. We have seen roadways a million kilometres long, we have seen oceans large enough to swallow a planet, and from here they are just threads and dots in the immense tapestry of the landscape below us. We can make maps, but I don't think we will ever understand them - the sphere's interior is just too huge for anyone's mind to take in.
"Starting to get some atmospheric friction," Commander Joaj reports from the engineering console.
My whiskers twitch, and I turn in my seat to face her. Joaj's narrow face, with its skin like tree bark , its antennae bristling from her forehead, is set in concentration. I still don't know what species the little engineer is - I suppose it must be on her personnel file, but I've never looked it up. All I need to know, really, is that she's reliable. Nonetheless, I'm surprised. "This far up?" I say.
"Confirmed," says Joaj. "Not much - less than one kilopascal - but enough to warm up the hull. Compensating now."
Something must have sent a cloud of gas out from the surface.... Inside the sphere, there is essentially no gravity; all the local forces cancel out. There are localized grav generators on the sphere - billions of them - but the main force governing the atmosphere is radiation pressure from the central sun. It's not much of a force, but it's enough, over time, to keep the sphere's air pressed against the interior surface, and to keep the star itself - mostly - in the centre of the sphere. There's some drifting, both of the star and the air... and it seems we've run into a cloud that's come free from its moorings and floated off into the sky. For some reason. Who knows what? The sphere's mechanisms feed off the entire output of the star; it juggles forces we can't even begin to handle.
Some - short circuit, perhaps - releases energy, or a weather control machine malfunctions briefly... and a gust of wind the size of Jupiter is hurled a few million kilometres into the interior. This sort of thing must happen all the time, inside the sphere.
"Pressure dropping," Joaj reports. "We're through it... back to normal air density at this altitude. Shouldn't be hitting air again for... three hours, on current course and speed."
"Thank you, Commander," I say formally, and settle back down in the command chair. I don't settle as well as I'd like. The engineers do their best, but there's a solid wall behind the command chair, and there really isn't enough space for my tail. Perhaps we should switch to a different standard design for the bridge - but, the last time the Timor refitted, that really wasn't my biggest priority.
A buzzer sounds. "Cartographic sweep completed," Onguma reports from the science console. The Saurian science officer is calm and composed, like so many of her people. "No significant megastructures or anomalies detected. We're moving out of optimum range for detail scans of unsurveyed territories, now, sir." The sphere is big, but we are approaching the area that's already been mapped by Alliance Joint Command. It's an area that exceeds the surface of Earth by several orders of magnitude. If you made a model of the sphere, the size of a football, the mapped area would be a dot.
"Thank you," I say. "All right, let's not worry any more. Shut down the cartographic scans, and let's just... enjoy the rest of the ride home."
"Yes, sir." Onguma's huge slit-pupilled eyes turn to her console. "Terminating cartographic survey. Reconfiguring sensor arrays for normal mode and -" She blinks. "I have something at extreme range."
"What sort of something?" I ask.
"Trying to resolve now...." Her head snaps up; her calmness has vanished. "Bearing one one seven, range about one triple zero, antiproton and nadion discharges."
"Helm. On that heading. Combat speed. Red alert." The human, Marya Kothe, is already on the helm controls. Alarms sound, and the deck vibrates beneath me as the Timor goes to full speed.
Nadion discharges - phaser fire. And antiproton fire too, which can only mean one thing. A Starfleet vessel in combat with the Voth. I repress a growl. The Voth.... The dinosaurians arrived at the sphere roughly the same time we did, and that has got to be down to the machinations of the now-departed Iconians. They have been fighting us for control of the sphere's mechanisms, for the insanely dangerous Omega particles it generates, since our explorations started. By now, they can't win - the controls for the sphere's subspace jumpers are shut down, the Voth themselves decimated by Undine attacks; they no longer have the resources to gain control of a device that doesn't work anyway. But the Voth have a rigid social structure and a devotion to dogma. Just because they can't win, that doesn't mean they will ever stop fighting.
And individual Voth ships can fight, and fight hard. If there's a Starfleet ship out there, in trouble with the Voth, it's my duty to assist.
"Starting to get transponder reads and tactical info," Marya reports. "Looks like a single Voth ship, mass and radiation profile consistent with a Bastion-class cruiser. Starfleet... one ship. USS Tempest. Pathfinder-class science vessel."
"Signal the Tempest that we're on approach to assist. Charge all plasma banks. Ready the singularity charge. Photonics, stand by." Timor has been substantially overhauled, her systems upgraded, since the mauling she took at the hands of the Vaadwaur. The Dauntless-class experimental science vessel is not, still, a warship... but anyone who takes us on will know they've been in a fight.
The same might be said for the Pathfinder class... a science vessel, yes, but a modern upgrade to the Intrepid-class spaceframe, and ships like Voyager could handle themselves in a fight. I call up the tactical feed on my command console. This one, the USS Tempest, is certainly not acting like a meek little laboratory ship. Even as I watch, she comes about in a tight turn, evading the stabbing scarlet flashes of the Voth's weapons, finding gaps in the enemy's shields and searing its hull with phaser fire.
Who's flying that ship? Whoever it is, they're good.
"No response on comms," Onguma reports. Well, it's not surprising. The Tempest is a little busy at the moment.
"Weapons range in five minutes," Marya says. I lean forwards, and my ears fold flat to the sides of my head.
The Voth ship is firing furiously, but the Tempest is running a fast evasion pattern. Antiproton bolts raise a glare as they glance off the Starfleet ship's shields, but those shields are holding... and, now, a sudden volley of phaser fire opens another gap in the Bastion's shields, and the Tempest takes full advantage. Photon torpedoes scream out of her launchers at point-blank range, and the impacts are too much for the Bastion's already scorched and battered hull. The Voth ship's port nacelle explodes, and the main hull is enveloped in flames and starts to crack open, venting air and electroplasma. It should be all over -
"Ward repair ship on sensors!" Onguma shouts.
Damn. Some of the Voth ships have these things - automated repair drones that lurk in subspace, loaded with nanotechnology and transporter buffers that can restore a wrecked ship to combat capability in seconds. I snarl as the dot comes up on the tactical display. This one won't help the wrecked Bastion - it is outside the Tempest's range, but we can reach it -
"Lock all weapons and open fire!"
Plasma beams reach out in blinding ribbons of green light to savage the Ward. The hull armour burns and vaporizes; white-hot fragments fly out across the sky. The singularity charge is probably overkill... but I fire it anyway. The repair craft is swallowed up in a twisting whorl of green-black light, is spat out again as flaming debris. The battle is over -
The battle should be over. But Onguma is staring at the scans. "Sir, the Tempest is still firing."
"What at?" The Bastion has collapsed into a smouldering wreck; there is nothing on the screens but debris and escape pods -
Phaser light bursts from the Tempest's beam arrays, and I feel the fur stand upright all over my body. "They're shooting down the Voth escape pods! Comms! Get me a link to that ship now!"
"Sending urgent priority signals," says Sumal Jetuz. The tall blond Betazoid is impeccably groomed as ever, and his voice is imperturbable - but the pallor of his face, the rapid movements of his black eyes, betray the emotions he's feeling at what we're seeing on the screen. "The Tempest's commander of record is Rear Admiral Daniel Fallon -"
"This is Commodore Fallon," a voice says from the comms unit. "Thanks for your assistance, Timor, we have everything under control."
The voice is clipped, brisk, matter-of-fact. I doubt mine is. "This is Admiral M'eioi! You're firing on Voth escape pods! Stand down! Now!"
"Ah, right." If Fallon has any reaction to my words, it doesn't show in his voice. "Apologies, sir. Our sensors are reading kemocite demolitions charges ejected from the wreckage. It might be a false reading - the Voth ship hit us with sensor scramblers. Ceasing fire."
On the screen, the Tempest's weapon arrays go dark.
"Helm," I order. "Move us in. Recover any remaining Voth survivors. Commodore Fallon." I strive to keep the anger out of my voice. "Prepare for transport to my vessel. We need to talk."
---
In the flesh, Fallon is... impressive. He is human, very tall - two metres, I think - and solidly built, his body and limbs showing sculpted musculature even in a standard Starfleet uniform. His craggy face is tanned, his brown hair cropped short, and his grey eyes are cold and flinty as they look me up and down. Although he commands a science vessel, the division stripe across his uniform tunic is red, and his combadge too shows tactical insignia.
"Commodore Fallon," I say, as the door of my ready room closes behind us. He prefers the obsolete title to the correct, but cumbersome, Rear Admiral Lower Half. I can understand that. What I can't understand is -
"Admiral." His voice is still completely calm. Authoritative. He looks and sounds like someone born to command. I stalk around to the chair behind my desk, but I don't sit. My tail is switching too much for me to sit. And I think he sees it.
"I don't need to remind you, Commodore," I begin, "about the standing orders regarding survivors from disabled enemy craft."
"No, sir. You don't." Still completely calm. "However, as I told you, sir, our sensors read those escape pods as enemy weapons. We acted accordingly. As soon as you informed us of the actual nature of those pods, sir, we ceased fire immediately. Your own log, sir, will bear that out."
I know he's lying, and he knows I know. How good, and how loyal, are his science officers? Can they fake sensor logs well enough to pass a determined enquiry by the JAG's office? Can I even get the JAG's office out here? "It's a very unusual sensor error," I say.
"Yes, sir. Voth sensor spoofing throws up all sorts of unusual readings. It's often difficult, sir, in the heat of battle, to recalibrate properly. As you will doubtless know, sir, from your own combats with Voth forces. On this occasion, sir, the enemy's own electronic warfare had tragic consequences. It's unfortunate."
"Not just for them," I say. "We have prisoner exchange and repatriation processes in place - the Voth survivors could, and should, have been traded for some of our own people -"
"There will be other chances for that, sir, I'm sure."
"You should get those sensor systems thoroughly checked out. Ideally, by experts at joint command."
"That's a sound suggestion, sir, and I'll bear it in mind."
"Do so." My eyes narrow slightly.
He is unfazed. "I remind the Admiral, sir, with all proper respect, that she is my superior officer, but not my commanding officer."
"That's why it's a suggestion, Commodore, not an order. But bear it in mind."
He gives a minimal nod. "Duly noted, sir."
"The last thing either of us wants," I say, slowly and deliberately, "is a repetition of today's... tragic mishap."
His lips thin, just a little. If I hadn't spent so long living among humanoids, I wouldn't notice it. "Indeed, sir." He shifts his weight from one foot to the other for a moment. "Though there are, perhaps, matters that might have escaped the Admiral's attention...."
"Such as?" Is he going to give me his reasons? To justify himself?
"You saw that Ward repair ship, sir. The Voth have similar systems in place on the ground. Their medics are well in advance of our own, sir, they can restore soldiers who've suffered injuries our own people would find fatal. I've seen Voth shock troopers, sir, come back after being apparently disintegrated by phaser fire. Our best guess is that the energy discharge triggers a modified transporter buffer which preserves their patterns until a medic can restore them." His eyes, icy to begin with, are hot, now. "Our people don't have these advantages, sir. If they're killed, they stay dead. To the Voth, as often as not, death is... a time-out, nothing more. It's nothing to fear, for them. Sir."
"So?" I say.
"So," he says, "the Voth who perished in today's tragic mishap, sir, won't be coming back. And I can't bring myself to regard that as a wholly bad thing, sir. Because if the Voth start to feel less sure about coming back alive when they go into combat, sir, they might just start to wonder if they're doing the right thing. If they have to pay the same price we do for this war, sir, they might start to ask themselves whether it's worth paying. Just a hypothetical thought, sir."
"I hope it stays hypothetical, Commodore," I say, as softly and levelly as I can. "Starfleet regulations, the Articles of War, and Federation law are all very clear about enemy survivors from destroyed ships. Anyone in an unarmed escape pod is a non-combatant, and we do not deliberately target non-combatants. Not now, not ever."
"Not while those laws are on the books, sir," says Fallon.
"Changing them is above either of our pay grades, Commodore."
"Yes, sir. I assure the Admiral that I will bear all her remarks very carefully in mind. If that's all, sir, I'd like to get back to my ship. I have repairs to put in hand, and casualties who - deserve my attention."
It sounds good to me, because the only way I want him on my ship - is in the brig. And I don't have enough to put him there... even though I know, deep down in my bones, that's where he ought to be.
"All right," I say. "No doubt you'll submit a full incident report to Joint Command at the earliest convenient opportunity."
"Yes, sir."
"So will I. Thank you for your time, Commodore."
His salute is impeccable. He turns on his heel, and marches out.
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