Noonday Sun 10

Tempest moved slowly over a forest of industrial spines, the energies crackling between them striking brilliant reflections from her hull.

"Outside weapons range of the Tapiola," Tom Kowalski reported. "If we get jumped now... no support from her, certainly none from the Timor...."

"Any signal from Timor?" Fallon asked.

John Brinkman shook his head. "Nothing, sir. All channels are jammed solid, inside the spire."

"Only to be expected," said Fallon. He glanced at the main viewscreen, then turned his attention back to his tactical console.

"Signal from Tapiola, sir," said Brinkman.

"On screen."

T'Pia's face appeared on the viewer. "Rear Admiral Fallon. Your ship is out of weapons range of the Tapiola. In the event of combat, we will not immediately be able to support you. What is the reason for your action?"

"We have a reading on some anomalies in the industrial towers," Fallon said easily, "and we're moving to investigate more closely. Is there any immediate sign of enemy activity? We can be back with you in minutes at the most."

"What is the nature of these anomalies? Tapiola's sensor equipment should be able to supplement yours."

"Sir," said Fallon, "I think it might be best if one of us held station near that entrance hole, ready to support the Timor if she needs it. Now, we could break off our current investigation, or we could swap places with you, but -" He spread out his hands. "We spotted this thing, I thought we'd follow it up." He glanced at the science station. "Pearl, transmit our sensor data to the Tapiola."

"I follow your logic," said T'Pia. Her green eyes were calculating and unreadable; like so many Vulcan eyes, Fallon thought. "There is no imminent danger of combat, so I think it reasonable that you should pursue your own objectives for the present. Please keep me informed of your planned movements. Tapiola out." The screen blanked out, changed back to the exterior view.

"Vulcans," Allan MacAndrew muttered.

"She's keeping her eye on us," said Fallon. "Very commendable. It's what I'd do, in her position."

"She's wrong about the imminent danger of combat, though," MacAndrew remarked.

"Sir," said Pearl. "We should inform the Tapiola of our sensor contact and its probable significance."

"Probable significance," said Fallon. "I don't think we'll bother her with a mere probability. Tactically, we're better off with the Tapiola in a long backstop position, anyway. We can hardly catch the Voth between her and us, if we're bunched up together with her."

"Sir, Admiral T'Pia needs to know," the android persisted.

"No," said Fallon. "She's good, but she's not a tactical commander. If things come to a fight, we will have to win it, and never mind about ranks and formalities." He tapped his forefinger on the tactical repeater, on the bright zig-zag line of the energy signature. "Besides, if she doesn't already know that's a Voth sensor-spoofing signature, she doesn't have the experience she needs to direct combat operations. She can see that reading just as plainly as we can."

"Sometimes, that worries me, sir," said MacAndrew. "The Voth must surely be learning from their mistakes. They must have figured out that we can spot their stealth signatures by now."

"Well," said Fallon, "only some of us can spot their stealth signatures. And besides, the Voth are hidebound. Static. Even if they do figure it out, their command structure is so moribund, it might take them years to change their procedures." He smiled. "And, in the meantime, we get to kill them."

---

"The primate Fallon has taken the bait," Davrak Karzis reported.

"Good." Gavron Stannark stood, and lumbered across the bridge of the Gendratis to the specialist science station. "What of the others?"

"The Tapiola is maintaining position. It is possible they have not detected the decoy drone, or that Fallon has not chosen to inform them of his sensor readings." Karzis raised his head, briefly, from the console displays. Information was flickering across his ocular implants, too fast for Stannark to make sense of it. "That would be consistent with our assessment of Fallon's personality. He is not necessarily respectful of his superiors. It is not an uncommon failing among the Starfleet primates."

"He surely cannot hope to overcome a Bulwark-class battleship without Tapiola's support," said Stannark.

"He is vainglorious, he might... but I judge that he is trying to obtain an optimum tactical position for himself. Caught between Tempest and Tapiola on opposite sides, even we might encounter difficulties." There was a faint smile on the intelligence officer's face. "If this were actually the situation Fallon envisages... he might cover himself in glory. What a pity, for him, that it is not."

"What of the third vessel?" Stannark asked.

"Still inside the spire. It will not be a factor in our operations. It would not amount to much, in any event. A tiny laboratory vessel, commanded by a feline primitive."

"We will need to... roust it out, afterwards," said Stannark. "If this test is successful, we will need to secure our position on that spire. Occupy it. It might even make a suitable replacement for our operational command."

"That is a suggestion well worth making to higher authority," said Karzis.

"Indeed." Stannark turned to an adjacent console. "Lieutenant Tyzel. What is the status on the special systems?"

Tyzel was small, brown-scaled, inoffensive; he looked up at the towering bulk of his commander and answered, "We have secured comms access to the spire's emitters. There is substantial data traffic, not all of which we have completely analyzed... but we have control over the primary tetryon antennae."

"Show me," Stannark ordered.

Tyzel punched commands into his console. "The anomalous tetryon pulses have been generated here," he said, indicating a spot on a three-D map. "We still do not have full details of the spire's interior arrangements, due to the heavy shielding... but we have identified that emitter array as one of type L-16-D, and we have command and control protocols for this type -" he indicated another panel. "There have been some glitches and stutters in the system as our data subversion packages were inserted, but there has been no response from the primates. Commander Karzis has the details on, on -"

"The specialist weapon," said Karzis. "Yes." He leaned over, put his hand on Tyzel's console, then rapidly tapped in a string of commands. "There. Data unlocked... and the program is initialized."

"Give me the specifics," said Stannark.

"All of them?" asked Karzis.

"The basics. The exact technical details, I can do without - and what is classified, will remain classified. What will it do?"

"The Solanae were forced out of normal space, into subspace, by an intense biolytic tetryon field," said Karzis. "It flooded the whole interior volume of the sphere... we do not have enough power for that, not from that one emitter array. But we do not need, or even want that widespread an effect. We can deliver a smaller, concentrated burst, in a spherical or ellipsoidal volume -"

"The Solanae committed an error," said Stannark. "No doubt because they were unfamiliar with the ancestral Voth technology they were meddling with."

"No doubt," said Karzis. "But we are in a position to replicate their error, only in a manner controllable - by us. We cannot generate the field at too great range from the spire itself, but our enemies have been obliging enough to come to us...."

He turned back to his own console, and called up a tactical map. "I have set up for an ellipsoidal field," he said. "The Tapiola is not changing position, and so it is neatly placed at one focus of the ellipsoid." One black claw clicked against the map screen. "The other focus is here...."

Stannark leaned over, peered at the screen, at where Karzis was pointing... and at the bright dot nearby. "The primate Fallon is rapidly approaching that position."

"Indeed he is. Following our decoy, in search of his ideal tactical situation. He will be in optimum position in only a few more seconds."

Stannark smiled. He raised his right arm, closed his taloned hand into one massive fist.

"Execute."

Noonday Sun 9

M'eioi

The spire is... unusual. In many ways.

Our three ships are cruising slowly towards it, now, the Tapiola in the lead, myself and Fallon flanking. The spire looms up ahead of us. Or down, which is one way to think of it... the spire, the buildings, all hanging down like stalactites from the inner surface of the sphere, with the sun deep, deep below us at the the bottom of everything.

It's one way to look at things. It gives me a brief flash of vertigo, though, so I decide not to pursue it.

The spire is taller than the average, and it has three massive curving legs supporting a bulky, domed central body with an overhanging ledge. Most of the spires we've surveyed have either two or four legs. And, all around this one, lesser buildings rise up, long narrow tower blocks wreathed in a haze of exhaled gases, like the construction units in the industrial zones.... The spire lifts out of these towers like... like a three-legged giant striding through long grass....

"Signal from Tapiola," Sumal Jetuz reports. The impeccably-groomed blond Betazoid is at the comms station today. "All stop, commence detail scans."

I nod. "All stop. Link in telemetry to Tapiola and Tempest, let's see what we've got."

The science consoles, and my own repeater screen, come alive with data feeds. Our sensors, passive and active, are sweeping the spire and the volume around it on every available level - from visible light down to subspace contour mapping. My ship's sensors are first rate, and I know T'Pia's meticulous attention to detail of old... I'm less sure about Fallon, of course. At least, with our own telemetry tied in to his, we will know if he gets another sensor glitch.

"Lots of activity in the surrounding industrial complex," Onguma mutters.

The sphere is an artificial construct - the industrial zones, essentially, are recycling centres, breaking down material at one point and repurposing it for other tasks. As yet, we don't fully understand how the sphere's internal systems work... there seems to be a lot of spare capacity in it, reserves against some hypothetical future - crisis, perhaps? At any rate, the industrial zones can produce rare materials at an enormous rate, and stockpile them for whatever purpose the sphere has. The Ferengi commercial concerns, among others, are anxious to get hold of these stockpiles....

But others - myself among them - are anxious over other things. The sphere is not just a big static object, it is a system, with an ecology, or an economy, of its own. We have to be very sure of the consequences, if we start to divert its resources.

Someone, or something, here, though, is sure enough of - its - ground. I can see patterns emerging from the raw data, even this soon. The industrial zones are feeding material into the spire. Power metals, exotic compounds, crystalline lattices grown in zero-g - these seem to be the main products. I frown. "Get me a channel to the Tapiola," I say to Sumal.

In a short time, T'Pia's face appears on the main viewer. "Your thoughts?" she asks.

"The industrial zones are making some pretty specific stuff," I say. "I've seen some of these compounds before - used in high-energy subspace research. Mostly, shielding material against tetryon emissions."

"I concur. One moment," T'Pia adds. "I will link Rear Admiral Fallon in to this conversation. He should be kept apprised of our analyses."

The screen splits, and Fallon's recruiting-poster face appears on one side. I repeat what I've told T'Pia. He looks - bored, if anything.

"It makes sense," he says. "We noticed this thing because the spire was putting out unusual tetryon emissions. Obviously, whoever or whatever is making those wants to be shielded from any dangerous energy spikes. And it needs the radioactives and the focus crystals to generate the tetryon waves in the first place."

"The crystalline material is a synthetic polarized composite with roughly 114% of the efficiency of a comparable mass of dilithium," says T'Pia. "Intriguing, though in normal circumstances the difficulty of manufacture would offset any overall benefits from using this substance. We may safely assume that dilithium itself remains a limited resource within the sphere, whereas the energy and technology required to create this synthetic is... abundantly available."

The sphere can harness the entire power of a sun - a weak sun, admittedly, but still a sun. "The question remains," I say, "who is doing all this, and why?"

"The logical assumption," says T'Pia, "is a directing intelligence based in the spire itself."

"Yes," says Fallon. "Well, I've had a look, and that's not going to be easy to prove. The interior of the spire is massively shielded. I can't get any sort of readings from the main body - sensor pulses don't penetrate. In fact, I doubt if my phasers would penetrate. Whatever it is, it's a secure installation."

"I have directed my communications staff to hail the spire in all frequencies, using all available first contact protocols," T'Pia says. "We have yet to elicit a response. It may be possible to access the Solanae automated communications channels and transmit a message by that means. I am concerned, however, that any interference in the spire's normal communications may be misinterpreted."

Fallon looks at something off the side of the screen. "Yes," he says absently, "better not interrupt them in the middle of something.... I'm reading something that might be life signs in there, or it might not. Whatever it is, it's elusive."

There is something about his eyes that bothers me. As if he's looking at something I can't see.

"My own readings indicate only the normal flora and fauna at the nominal ground level of the sphere," says T'Pia. "Rather less of both than is usual, in fact, no doubt because of the heavy industrialization of this particular area."

I tap out commands on my console, calling up more data - specifically, passive-reflection neutrino scans of the spire. As Fallon says, the main body shows up as little more than a solid black blank - its contents are carefully hidden behind layers of particle screening. But the three legs are more interesting. I can see flows of material, and energy. And - I lean forward, and concentrate on the images on the console.

"If this is some sort of fortification," Fallon is saying, "we need to be very careful not to trip any automated defences. Getting jumped by packs of swarmers, well, it's not pleasant."

"There is no conclusive indication that this structure is primarily military," says T'Pia. "Particle shielding may be required for any number of purposes."

"It's very thoroughly shielded, sir, so that means it has military applications, whatever its official purpose," says Fallon. But his attention still seems to be elsewhere.

As is mine, now. My eyes narrow, my whiskers twitch. The maps of the spire's legs are taking shape - they are fantastically complex, but there is something I can see, now -

"I don't think it is military," I say. "If it was military, it wouldn't have an easily spotted back door."

Fallon's gaze snaps over to me and sharpens. "Explain," says T'Pia.

I put the three-d maps onto the main channel. "Look at that dark line in the leg," I say. "It's an empty space, and one with no significant energy flows. It's a tube, almost, reaching up from the base of the leg to the underside of the main body. And it's got a branching accessway here-" I indicate with a light pencil. "That's like one of those access ports in the Joint Command spire's legs. And we've deciphered the command structures for those. If that's got compatible comms protocols -"

"You could sneak a commando team up through the leg and into the main body?" says Fallon. "It'd be one hell of a climb...."

"That's not what I'm thinking," I say. "It's a matter of scale - always is, when you're thinking about the sphere. That looks like a thin little tube on the map, but it's easily wide enough to admit a heavy shuttle, or even a small starship." I sit back in the command chair. "The Timor, for instance."

T'Pia's green eyes take on a calculating look. "Risky," Fallon comments.

"But feasible," says T'Pia, "though there are some bends in this - access tube - which look as though they will be a tight fit, even for the Timor. Certainly neither the Tapiola nor the Tempest would be able to negotiate the passage."

"If it's a particle waveguide," says Fallon, "and it goes live, you're going to be in a world of hurt."

"No reason to assume it will go live," I say. "There's already a hundred or so conduits that are live, in that one leg alone. No, I think that one is spare capacity, or maybe even an oversight in the design. As you say, sir, it's got some tight kinks in it, and you wouldn't want that in an energy-channel waveguide."

"I concur with that assessment," says T'Pia. "Still, the risks must be considerable."

"But the benefits are pretty considerable, too, sir," I point out. "We'd have the full resources of the Timor right up close against that particle shield - we'd be ideally placed to find a way through, or to get better readings on the inside, or maybe even make contact with whoever's running this thing. I think it's worth the risk, sir."

T'Pia nods. "Very well. We will make a preliminary assessment, in any case. Timor should approach the access port and determine whether the control protocols permit entry. If we can enter without causing damage or raising an alarm, then it may be useful to pursue this option."

---

Timor slips out of sunlight, into shadow. The cavernous bay is like the ones at Joint Command; a deep hole carved into the inner surface of the spire's leg, flanked by mechanisms... more mechanisms that we don't yet fully understand.

"Thrusters only. Station keeping," I order.

Timor floats freely, a little above the flat floor of the bay, riding on thrusters and antigravs to cancel the local grav generators. Sumal Jetuz bends over the comms console, his expression intent. "Beginning comms handshake sequence now," he says.

I wait. Before me is a black curving wall. We have learned to transmit code pulses that open doorways in such walls - at Joint Command, anyway. Do the same codes work here? We're about to find out.

The wall fills the main viewscreen. On my command console, I have an image of T'Pia's face, over the link to Tapiola. "We're knocking on the door," I tell her.

"I see," she says. "A metaphor."

"What's the Tempest up to?"

"Rear Admiral Fallon has requested to take his ship out some twenty kilometres, to provide a wider baseline for further sensor scans. I see no reason to refuse this request."

He won't be around to back me up... but, then, if I get inside the spire, he wouldn't be able to anyway. But I can't shake the feeling that there's something he's not telling us... but it's an obscure, emotional, fuzzy sort of feeling, there's no point talking to T'Pia about it.

"Handshake complete," says Sumal. "I'm reading - hmm." He peers at the console. "That was odd. A little... stutter, almost, in the data response." He shakes his carefully groomed head. "Some sort of internal blip, at a guess, sir. These systems are old. Response coming through.... Codes accepted. We have access."

"All right. Open the door, let's see what we've got."

On the main viewscreen, vertical cracks appear in the black wall... and then the section between them slides upwards, revealing another wall beyond, and a circular doorway, like the doorways we see so often inside the spires - only bigger, much bigger, nearly seventy metres across. As I watch, its segments split open and retract, and the way is clear - a tubular passageway, reaching into the interior of the spire.

I take a deep breath. "It worked. We're in," I say to T'Pia.

"Very well. I suggest you proceed with all appropriate caution. Signal your peaceful intentions in linguacode on all channels. And please maintain this communications link for as long as you are able."

"Will do." I turn to Marya Kothe at the helm. "We're going in. Take us in slowly, and kill the proximity alarms now, or they're going to get noisy." Marya nods, and reaches for the controls.

The portal expands on the screen as Timor moves towards it. Beyond it... smooth metal walls with occasional ribs, and dotted with... lights, I suppose... at regular intervals.

"Transmit linguacode contact messages on continuous loop. All passive sensors to maximum. Let's get as much detail as we can, here."

There is a vague sound in the air as we enter the passageway, a dim booming noise, like ocean surf far off.... After a moment, I realise what it is: our own engines, the sound of reaction mass jetting from our RCS arrays, echoing back from the walls of the tube. I'm still not entirely used to operating a spaceship in atmosphere -

I grin, quietly, to myself. Never mind atmosphere. Now, we're flying a starship indoors.

The passageway is comparatively short, only three hundred metres or so, and then it joins up with the vertical tube that threads its way up the spire's leg. I see Marya's back muscles tense as she negotiates the junction. It's a tight fit - but Timor is through. We turn upwards, confronting another echoing metal tube. There are markings on the wall, opposite the junction: circles and oblongs and triangles in some sort of arrangement - I don't know what they mean, if they mean anything.

Timor moves upwards, along the tube, surrounded by the dim roar of her own engines.

"No problems so far," I tell T'Pia. "We got through into the main passage all right - the next tight spot is about thirty kilometres further along."

"Noted," says T'Pia. "Your comms signal is slightly attenuated. This can be ascribed to the shielding effect of the spire's own mass, and to random interference from the other energetic processes in adjacent conduits."

The tube curves as we ascend, following the line of the leg. It's still an absolutely smooth ride; we're protected, even, from the random atmospheric buffeting we'd get on the outside. The lights in the walls shed a dim glow all around us - and, as we approach that sudden sharp bend on the map, I see more markings on the wall ahead, more circles, oblongs and triangles -

"I'm getting an idea," I say.

Sumal turns towards me; Marya sneaks a quick glance back over her shoulder. "Specify," says T'Pia.

"Lights inside this thing. And markings on the wall. Signage. Why would you put signage on a wall, if not for somebody to read it? This isn't some waveguide or disused energy conduit. This tube is exactly what we're using it for. A service access, for ships."

T'Pia nods, once. "There are some implicit assumptions in that hypothesis, but in the absence of contradictory evidence, it is internally consistent and logical."

It's a weight off my mind, in any event. Timor is moving towards that tight spot, now, and I can see... things. Devices, mechanisms, structures, whatever you might call them, extending from the walls of the tube - which swells out, in fact, at this point, into a spheroid cavern. It would be easy to get through, if we didn't have to pick our way through the clutter....

"A pit stop. A service station - somewhere to repair and refuel on the way into, or out of, the main body," I muse.

"Conceivably," says T'Pia. Her image on the screen is getting a little fuzzy. Interference from the shields and the energy flows is becoming stronger.

Marya threads the ship between the probing fingers of three complex gantries, and we are back in the tube, heading out along a gradually tightening curve.

"If I'm right," I say, "we could figure out a lot about the vessels the Solanae used, just from looking over the equipment back there. This place could be a gold mine of information."

"Certainly no other structures of this nature have been investigated in other spires," says T'Pia. "Of course, this spire is unusual in several ways. Of the 154,702 spires thus far registered on our cartographic surveys, only 627 have a tripedal structure, and none of those has previously been studied. As for the intensive surrounding industrial zones -"

I'm listening to her with only half an ear. T'Pia's always been a good CO, but she's a Vulcan, and Vulcans love their statistics.

"Next kink's coming up, sir," says Marya. More signage on the wall of the tube - a different arrangement of circles, oblongs and triangles - and then -

My ears fold flat to my skull, and my fur bristles. There is no mistaking that shape.

"High-energy antiproton discharge arrays," says Onguma. "No energy buildup, but -"

I think. Raise shields? But that might be interpreted as a hostile act - and I barely have room for shields in here, anyway. "Maintain course," I order. The emitters of the arrays look terrifying, spiky and menacing.

"A security checkpoint?" Sumal wonders aloud.

"That would be consistent with M'eioi's overall hypothesis," T'Pia says. She sounds absolutely calm, as ever. Of course, she's not the one staring down the barrel of an antiproton gun.

Timor threads her way between the menacing shapes, and every random reflection looks like the first flash of the light that will kill me.

"We're through," says Marya, and I see the tube open up before me. I breathe in deeply, and force my ears to unclench.

"Any sort of response?" I ask.

"Nothing," Onguma replies.

"Any answer to our signals?" Maybe the security checkpoint heard our linguacode transmissions, and its automatic systems flagged us as harmless because of them. Or maybe the whole thing is dead, deactivated. I don't know.

"Nothing on any comms channel, sir," says Sumal. "We're starting to get some really heavy interference now."

T'Pia's face is monochrome now, and severely blurred. "Your data transmissions are no longer intelligible," she says, and her voice hisses and pops with static.

"We'll keep going as long as we can," I tell her. "Maybe we'll be able to filter out the interference once we're close enough to get good reads on the particle shields."

And suddenly, there is something on the screen, rising over the curve of the passageway: another circular portal. I turn to Sumal. "Send some codes to that, please. And, Marya, in case they don't work, reduce speed. Joaj, boost the inertial dampers." I don't want to ram the doorway, and I certainly don't want to damage the ship if we do.

But Sumal's codes work - the portal separates into segments that twirl away into the walls. Beyond... is a huge empty space. We've reached the main body of the spire, and we're at... the hangar, or the terminus, or whatever you would like to call it.

Timor passes through the portal - and T'Pia's image blinks out, to be replaced by a blank screen. We're in the outer fringes, at least, of the heavy-duty particle shields. We won't have external communications until we figure some way past that jamming. Never mind.

The - hangar - is huge, and irregularly shaped, and full of echoes. Points of light twinkle on shadowy walls. There is a big, round, flat deck visible, marked out with lines - parking spots, I'd guess, for Solanae ships. Each section is illuminated by a brilliant spotlight, shining down from somewhere high above.

"Marya. Take us in for a landing."

Timor slows and swoops downwards. The echo of our thrusters is quieter and hollower, now. There are dull clunks as landing gear unfolds from our nacelles and engineering hull. We slow to a halt, hover for an instant, then descend. A loud boom resonates through the hangar as our pads hit the deck.

"All stop."

Silence falls as the last echoes die away. The Timor is standing on the pad... and when was the last time, I wonder, that a ship occupied this spot? A thousand years ago? A hundred thousand?

All around us is the spire, filled with arcane devices, filled with power and secrets. Somewhere, there is an intelligence, someone or something driving all this.

I stroke my whiskers with one claw. "All right," I say softly, "let's see what's in there."

Noonday Sun 8

Dan Fallon sat, very stiff and formal, in the command chair, reviewing the Tempest's status on the tactical display. The science vessel was riding at station-keeping some kilometres below the bulk of the Joint Command spire; two kilometres to starboard, the Tapiola was floating freely, and beyond her, the bright-gleaming shape of the Timor. Fallon checked his ship's systems, but it was purely a formality. Tempest was fully fuelled and provisioned, all readouts were green... ready to go.

"Commander Brinkman," he said, "signal to flag: ready to proceed at your order."

"Aye, aye, sir." John Brinkman turned to the comms console. He looked rather like an older version of Fallon himself; tall, craggy-featured, balding. "Transmitting to Tapiola and Joint Command now... acknowledgements received."

"Very well," said Fallon. "Maintain readiness."

"So," Tom Kowalski spoke up from the helm, "are we just waiting on prissy kitty now, or what?"

Fallon's mouth twitched. "Admiral M'eioi remains a senior officer," he said mildly.

"Science division," Kurt Hoffman chimed in from the ops station. The two younger men always seemed to take each others' part, Fallon reflected. "Probably spent her career analysing gas clouds and counting asteroids."

"I reviewed her personnel file," Fallon said in the same mild tones. "She's seen action. She was promoted after the Undine incursion, and she was plenty busy before that. She and Admiral T'Pia were both at the defence of Andoria against the Hegemony."

"Running tachyon readings for cloaked Roms," said Hoffman dismissively. "I've read all the files on that action."

"Which reminds me," said Fallon. "Get me the latest meteorology readings from Joint Command, will you, Mr. Hoffman?"

Hoffman raised his eyebrows, but complied at once. He stood, crossed the bridge to an unmanned console, and reached for the control panel to tap in commands -

A bolt of golden light seared past him, striking the panel, and he jumped back. "Hey!" Another phaser beam streaked past his head, close enough that his fine blond hair lifted in the static discharge. "What the -?" He turned to face Fallon, his fair-skinned face flushing red.

Fallon slipped the phaser back into his belt. "Not so easy, is it," he said, "taking readings under fire?"

Hoffman gaped at him for a moment. Then his expression changed to a rueful, awkward smile. "Point taken, sir." He hesitated for a moment, hovering by the console. "Do you... um... still need those met reports...?"

"Take your station, Mr. Hoffman," said Fallon. "We'll worry about the weather later." The door to the bridge hissed open, and a security team burst in, weapons ready. "Stand down," said Fallon. "Just a little... exercise, that's all."

The security lieutenant stared for an instant, then holstered his weapon, saluted smartly, and led his team back through the door. Fallon swept the bridge with his gaze. "Admirals T'Pia and M'eioi," he said, "may have the wrong ideas about fighting the Voth. But they are still Starfleet officers, and senior, experienced officers at that, and you will accord them the same respect that you do me. Are we clear on this?"

There was a muttered chorus of assent. Fallon unbent slightly, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile. "However, if we get a chance to show them how it's done, properly, we'll take it. Mr. MacAndrew. Any more details on our destination?"

"Joint Command has nothing we don't already know, sir." Allan MacAndrew, Fallon's exec, was a slightly-built man with a sharp foxy face and tightly curling dark hair. "I'm concerned about this, sir. It's pretty much certain that the spire we're investigating is the source of the readings we've been tracking -"

"Well," said Fallon, "someone else was bound to notice it, eventually."

"We'll lose our ace in the hole, sir."

"Then we'll just have to find ourselves a new one," said Fallon. "We can do that."

"Technically, sir," a new voice spoke up, "the anomalous readings and the correlations with sphere activity should have been reported to Joint Command as soon as we detected them."

Fallon turned his head to look at the speaker. She was shaped like a woman, but the too-smooth skin, the impossibly white hair, the blank metal eyeballs, all betrayed her artificial origin. "Technically, you're correct, Pearl," said Fallon. "Duly noted." He turned back to the main screen.

The android looked for a moment as if she were going to say some more, but just then Brinkman spoke. "Sir, I'm receiving data transmissions from Tapiola - departure vector and course details, transferring to helm now - and Admiral T'Pia has obtained clearances from traffic control, we have an immediate outbound slot -"

Fallon allowed himself another thin smile. "The one good thing about this situation," he said, "is that T'Pia has to do all the wrangling with the bureaucrats. Mr. Kowalski. Course details check out?" Kowalski nodded. "Very well, then. Engage."

Noonday Sun 5

T'Pia

Subcommander Kaol is a typical piece of Romulan misdirection.

People assume that the commanding officer of Alliance Joint Command must be of high rank - they therefore assume that this harassed-looking officer of intermediate rank is only a representative of higher command, and merely passing on decisions arrived at by some superior body. They do not, therefore, argue with or question Subcommander Kaol, since it is not worth their time to deal with a mere representative.

Of course, Kaol is largely responsible for the whole of Joint Command's policy, and he has the shortest chain of command of any subcommander in the Republic Navy - he reports to Admiral Kererek, who reports to D'Tan. It is an enviable arrangement - I could wish that I, too, had so few superiors. Persons who try to assert authority over Kaol - to "pull rank" - are referred up to his immediate superior. This rarely works as well for them as they might wish.

Now, Kaol taps on his desk console, and an image of the sphere forms in his holoprojector. I lean forwards in my chair to study it closely.

A pulsing green dot marks a spot on the interior surface. At this scale, there is no meaningful detail to be seen. The location is some millions of kilometres from the spire appropriated by Joint Command, and well outside the - optimistic - boundaries of the area we have surveyed in detail.

"This is where the anomalous tetryon pulses originate," Kaol says. "So far, they are at relatively low power - but the tetryon frequency is unusual, and there appears to be some attempt to modulate it. Our experts are unable to decipher any meaningful information, but the mere fact of the modulation implies some sort of intelligent direction."

Someone, or something, is deliberately creating a tetryon pulse. I study the hologram. "That point is well outside our own area of operations," I say. "We cannot be absolutely sure about Voth explorations, but it is also outside the known extent of their territorial claims."

"Their defensible territorial claims," says Kaol. The Voth, of course, continue to lay claim to the sphere as a whole.... "The most likely inference is that some third party has gained access to the sphere, and is engaged in some experiments with the Solanae tetryon generators." He frowns. "Naturally, this is cause for concern. The power levels are comparatively low, so we need not immediately fear a repetition of the Solanae, ahh, mishap. But we need to investigate this situation, to find out who is generating this signal, and to, ahh, dissuade them from any incautious experimentation."

The disaster created by the Solanae's failed rift experiment devastated the sphere, significantly dimmed the central star, and contaminated the Solanae themselves with so much tetryon radiation they were unable to exist in normal space any more. As Kaol suggests, a repetition of this disaster would be... unwelcome. "What resources will you devote to the investigation?" I ask.

"We were certainly hoping," Kaol says, "that Starfleet would handle this one. The situation may call for diplomacy, and that is, ahh, Starfleet's forte, I think. Obviously, we also need experts in high-energy particle physics - I understand that is your background?"

"That is correct," I say. "The Tapiola can certainly be made available. It might be preferable, venturing into an unknown area, to have additional support."

"The Dauntless-class USS Timor has recently returned from a survey mission, and is, ahh, at a loose end, as far as my records indicate. Commanded by an Admiral M'eioi, whom I believe you know...?"

"Indeed. She was my junior in Stellar Survey Group 247 up until the Undine incursion, during which she distinguished herself and was promoted and reassigned. She is a competent officer with a suitable scientific background. Her assistance would be welcome, if you can obtain it."

"I will coordinate with your Director of Operations to -" Kaol suddenly looks past me, and stiffens. Something has alarmed him. I turn in my chair and look.

Kaol's "office" is no more than a section of a larger compartment - it is not even walled off, and there are always numbers of people around. At present, their attention seems to be monopolized by status screens displaying information about the local environment within the sphere.

I study those screens myself, and I understand why.

"If I am interpreting the visual data correctly," I say, "the ion stream appears to have shut down."

"That, ahh... would seem to be correct," says Kaol.

I stand up. "I will return at once to the Tapiola. You will require detail scans of the stream's waveguides. Also, this incident is liable to draw interest from other quarters, and it would be as well to be fully prepared."

"Yes," says Kaol in a blank voice. "Quite. Yes."

---

The ion stream is a conduit of exotic high-energy particles flowing through huge circular waveguides, hanging in the interior of the sphere, passing near Joint Command's spire. It has not been fully charted - like so many things - nor has its behaviour been fully explained. The idea that it is, in effect, a part of the sphere's power systems - like an EPS conduit inside a starship - does not bear closer examination; the ion stream generates many unusual energy effects, and we do not know how they could be used.

Usually, it generates many unusual energy effects. Currently, as Tapiola makes a cautious approach to one of the waveguides, it is generating nothing whatsoever.

"No signs of damage or malfunction." The Saurian science officer, Bildua, speaks in abstracted tones, as he tries to assimilate the data flooding into his console. Given that the waveguides are not currently operating, we should attempt to take detailed scans of them - something which is not possible while the energy stream is producing vast quantities of sensor noise. "It's just... shut down, I think, sir. We're getting a data signal which is consistent with Solanae comms chatter - I think it's just repeating 'standby mode', over and over."

"Patch that through to my command console," I say. "I want some warning if that changes. Mr. Psaz. Tactical report."

"Nothing yet," the Tellarite at the weapons station replies. "That'll change, though. Scanning on all Voth frequencies. I've got positions on allied ships in the vicinity - huh. One we know, nearby. Elachi Monbosh-class battleship with KDF privateer transponder. The Goroke."

"Excellent. General Bl'k' is a competent tactical commander, and her ship is a significant combat asset."

Normally, the Voth are deterred from probing too close to Joint Command by the minefield, an automated defence network... which, in fact, works rather better than it should. The minefield is vast, but it is, in the end, a fixed defensive line in a three-dimensional and unbounded strategic environment; such things are usually circumvented. It is, perhaps, a function of Voth rigidity of outlook, that they should respect a notional boundary line....

Most of the time. "Contacts bearing three eight seven," Psaz reports. "Here they come."

"I'm receiving a general hail." This from Pascale, the green-haired android at the operations console. "Putting it through -"

A craggy scaled face glares at us from the viewscreen. "This is Science Commander Katzik aboard the Madractis. This phenomenon is now a subject of study by the Voth Circles of Science. Mammalian vessels are to depart immediately. No further warnings will be given."

"This is Admiral T'Pia aboard the USS Tapiola," I say. "Intelligent cooperation in this matter will undoubtedly yield better results -"

The screen goes blank. To be honest, I did not expect otherwise.

"Mammalian," Bildua mutters. "I should take offence."

"Can't get a read on all the Voth," says Psaz. "They're throwing out some fierce sensor jamming. We've got a Bastion-class for sure, though, coming our way." He glares at me. "I don't think he's got intelligent cooperation in mind."

"I concur. Red alert. Battle stations. Ready all projection systems."

"Goroke is moving in," Psaz says, "but that cruiser will reach us first unless we go max evasive now."

Options flash through my mind. "Better to bring the Voth to action immediately," I decide. "Comms. Signal the Goroke and patch through tactical telemetry." I touch a control. "All hands. We are about to engage a Voth cruiser. Stand ready." My voice booms back at me through the Tapiola's internal speakers.

"Weapons range in two," says Psaz.

"Forward shields to maximum."

I have a visual. Against the blue haze of the sphere's atmosphere, the Bastion cruiser is a small, malevolent black blotch. A blotch that grows, and suddenly flares with red -

Tapiola shudders in the antiproton barrage. "Forward shield down thirty-five per cent!"

"All projectors, fire. Steer two seven two mark three, emergency evasive."

My ship shudders again with the fury of her own barrage. Tetryon fire from the forward blades, yes, but most of my energies are expended on more exotic weapons systems. Lines of light reach out from our hull, spread out, and shimmer into holographic warships, fuelled by energy from our warp core. Ahead of us, the Voth ship suddenly slows and trembles, caught in an induced gravity well - and then is surrounded by an icosahedral cage of golden light, as our Tholian web generators come into play. In the sphere's atmosphere, the web lines sparkle and crackle vividly.

The Bastion has tried a trick of its own, creating an energy-sapping spatial rift at our location - our desperate burst of speed tears us loose from it, just in time. My power levels are depleted, though, and the initial barrage took my shields down lower than I would like. But the Voth ship is temporarily trapped, and I have the opportunity to pummel it with tetryon fire and thermionic torpedoes. I have the opportunity, and I take it.

A thunderstorm of energies rumbles around the Bastion cruiser, and I see a brief flash of flame from a minor hull breach. Tapiola comes about once more, to present her substantial forward armament. Still, the Bastion is a larger and more powerful ship than mine, and the odds are not in my favour - or would not be, if I did not have support.

"Goroke is in range," Pascale reports. "Her auxiliary vessels are spoofing the Voth's sensors. General Bl'k' is targeting their engines."

"We will follow suit. Mr. Psaz. I find that cruiser's port nacelle aesthetically displeasing. Kindly remove it."

The Tholian web implodes, the mesh scoring deep grooves in the Bastion's hull - but releasing it, at the same time. Scarlet antiproton fire raves out from its every gun port. Tapiola shivers again, and there is a flash-bang from a secondary console as a transient surge is damped out in our EPS grid. Our combat holograms are firing, but the Voth ship's wide-area barrage has caught them and destabilized their matrices - they flicker and wink out of existence.

There is the grunt and whine of energy banks discharging below me. Cherenkov-blue light sears out from our blades, tearing at the stumpy rounded shape of the Bastion's port nacelle. And, on the other side -

The Goroke's approach should have been obvious, but the battleship is accompanied by her specialist auxiliary craft, and one of those is projecting a jamming beam that blinds the Bastion's sensors. Anyone looking out of a porthole, of course, could see the goat's-skull shape of the battleship - but it seems the Voth were not looking. Now, the first intimation they get of Goroke's arrival is a vicious blast of crescent-wave disruptor fire, virulent green light scything through the armour of their starboard nacelle. A vivid flash marks the impact of a subspace torpedo, at the same time as one of our own thermionics pierces the Bastion's failing shields and strikes home on the port side.

"Yes!" Psaz shouts in triumph. "Cruiser's drive is out! Shields dropping, power failing! We've crippled them!"

"Hail from the Goroke," says Pascale.

"On screen."

The face that appears in my viewer is dark green, thin and feral, with glittering silvery eyes, and a bony crest on the forehead that is remarkably similar in shape to the Goroke herself. R'j Bl'k's voice is a thin rasping whisper; her species has difficulty with vowel sounds. "Reasonably well done," she says. "But there is a problem. S-s-s-s-s. One of your ships has engaged the Voth's command battleship, range two fifty kellicams, bearing nine six. They will need immediate support, and we are closest."

"I see. Commander Pascale. Get me a channel to the Bastion." I look hard at R'j. "We must secure the situation here, quickly."

"I hope you do not plan to be overly sentimental. S-s-s-s-s."

"I have the Voth captain, sir," says Pascale.

R'j's face is replaced on the screen by another harsh reptilian one - perhaps not quite as ferocious as Commander Katzik's, but still not the face of someone easily amenable to reason. "Eject your warp core," I say.

The Voth glares at me. "I do not take orders from mammals!"

"I will rephrase. Please eject your warp core. Our attention is needed elsewhere, but we must ensure that your ship no longer poses a threat. If you eject your warp core, you will no longer pose a threat. If we open fire and destroy you completely, you will also no longer pose a threat. Please choose logically. I have no desire to inflict unnecessary loss of life."

The Voth captain's expression is - hard to describe. He turns and makes a gesture to someone off-screen. Seconds pass, and then something drops out of the Bastion cruiser's hull, to tumble off on a random course in the air of the sphere.

"Warp core ejected," the Voth says in a choked voice. Even if they restore auxiliary power, it will take many hours to retrieve and reinstall the core - by which time prize crews from Joint Command will have taken the ship in charge, in any case.

"I congratulate you on a sound decision," I say to the Voth, and close the comms channel before hearing his response. "Helm. Flank speed to the coordinates supplied by the Goroke. Reinforce shields, and give me status reports on urgent repairs."

The damage to Tapiola is insignificant, and Goroke was never touched. We remain fully functional and combat-ready. As I study the situation ahead of me, I am glad of that.

"One Pathfinder-class science vessel, USS Tempest," Psaz reports. "Voth ships - three Palisades and a Bulwark. Bulwark's got to be their command ship, the Madractis." He scowls. "Stupid names the Voth give their ships."

Palisade-class scout vessels are depressingly capable enemies - though Tapiola and Goroke should not be challenged too severely by three of those. The heavy Bulwark-class battleship, though, is another matter. Looking at the tactical display, I am amazed that the Tempest has survived as long as she has.

"That Pathfinder is luring them," R'j's voice says over the link to Goroke. "Your ship's commander is pulling them in like ll'hhyrst'ni after a gh'dr'st. But luring them where?"

"Hopefully, the Tempest will survive and we can ask them," I say. The Pathfinder-class vessel is showing several damage icons in my display, though. The Palisades are showing little damage, the Bulwark none at all. "Who is the commander of the Tempest?" I ask.

"Records indicate... Rear Admiral Daniel Fallon," Pascale answers. "Unusual. Tempest is a long range science vessel, but Rear Admiral Fallon is a tactical division officer."

Intriguing. However, my primary concern, when it comes to Admiral Fallon's personnel record, must be to make sure it does not end today.

"Signal the Tempest. Inform them that we are on approach to assist." I study the range display. We can see flashes of golden phaser light - and more vivid flashes of Voth antiproton weapons - but we are still a long way from effective weapons range. Especially in atmosphere - atmosphere is a problem anywhere near the interior surface of the sphere.

The Tempest dodges another barrage of beams from the Madractis. Fallon is clearly a skilled ship handler - but he cannot keep this up indefinitely. He is an experienced officer and he must know this. Logically, therefore, he must have a plan. But what is it?

"Five minutes to weapons range," Psaz reports.

The Tempest changes course. Ignoring the attack from the nearest of the Palisades, the Pathfinder loops around and through one of the ion stream's inactive waveguides, then dives out again, turning towards the surface of the sphere. The Voth ships turn in a curve to follow, but they are less nimble -

And I see Fallon's plan. I glance at an indicator on my console - something I had neglected, until now. Fallon must have something like it on his bridge.

The automated message from the waveguide has changed. "Hail the Voth," I order, "tell them to -"

I do not have a chance to finish before the ion stream turns itself back on.

The atmosphere is thin, here, but it still flames and glares with a million cracks of thunder all rolled into one. My displays white out in a burst of sheer noise. When they come back, I can see that Fallon's trap has worked, just as he evidently intended. The energy is flowing through the waveguides of the stream... and the Voth ships are squarely in its path.

The Palisade scout ships stand no chance; they glow and flame and vanish in the white-hot flashes of core breaches, and those explosions themselves are taken by the stream and stretched, endlessly, into the distance. But the Madractis -

The Bulwark's shields are failing, true, but they are still there, for the moment. The armoured hull - I do not know what is happening to it. Energy is bleeding through the shields, and there is still a soft vacuum within the stream - I am not sure if the hull is ionizing, or vaporizing, or oxidizing, or some combination of the three. I can see that it is glowing white, and seems to steam, almost, as the outer layers are ablated away.

Is there any way the crew can possibly survive? Escape pods would disintegrate in an instant. Transporter operations - I can only imagine what those energies would do to a transporter signal, and I would far rather not. Perhaps, if the Bulwark is capable of a subspace jump -

The ship's hull changes. Now, hairlike lines of light are shooting out of it, bristling in all directions. I repress a shudder. Energy is bleeding through the shields in greater quantity, and some of it is being refracted or reflected through the crystal structure of the hull. Random energies, blasting outwards - blasting in all directions, including inwards -

The ablation of the outer layer of the ship might keep its interior cool enough to survive in. Now, however, all the crew has to worry about... is a random barrage of plasma fire, coming out of the walls themselves.

The Madractis changes course, angling more steeply towards the boundary of the ion stream. It must be in response to some automatic mechanism. Nobody could possibly be alive on that ship now.

The shields finally fail, and the question is rendered irrelevant. Unimpeded by the shield, the stream's forces tear what remains of the Madractis down to nothing. There is a white glare as the core goes, and then the Voth ship is gone.

I find my voice. "Contact command. Establish the overall battle situation, find out if we are needed anywhere else." I swallow. "Then contact the Tempest. Offer any necessary assistance with repairs."

"Did he do that on purpose?" Psaz asks. I am not sure what emotion is in his voice.

"It seems most likely. An effective stratagem, certainly... not, perhaps, one I would have chosen." Whatever else, Fallon is clearly not concerned with minimizing loss of life. The Voth casualties will be... total. Not even bodies left to bury.

"Receiving strategic data across Joint Command occupied zone," says Pascale. "The Voth forces are withdrawing at high speed. We're reading three more cripples - Joint Command is sending prize crews - and our own losses seem to be minimal so far." She turns her metallic gaze towards me. "Do you think they ran because they lost the command ship, sir? Or just, well, because the ion stream came back?"

"It could be either," I reply. "If the latter, their action is... premature. There is still a mystery here."

The ion stream takes power. Petawatts of power, at least - power enough to blast a battleship into nothingness. For a time, all that energy was being - diverted. Energy does not simply disappear, and the abrupt cessation and equally abrupt reappearance of the stream... suggest, to me, that its generators, wherever they might be, were still running. But the power those generators create was... needed elsewhere.

Needed where?

Noonday Sun 3

Personal log: M'eioi, officer commanding USS Timor, NCC-92941

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.