Star Trek - Unification Part 6

Riker gazed at the viewscreen as they navigated their way toward the T'Pau. They moved at a cautious pace through the immense graveyard of ships, skirting their way carefully through the ghostly flotsam. Occasionally Riker would recognize a name or a design; once Worf announced that they were pa.s.sing the Ghandi, a legendary ship whose exploits Riker had studied at the Academy, and whose last explorations he had chronicled in a junior thesis. He was stunned to see the ship whose crew he had described in intimate detail, floating immobilized and impotent in s.p.a.ce, a burned-out sh.e.l.l that had been the victim of violence while on a nonviolent mission, as though its name had determined its fate. He briefly held his hand over his heart as they pa.s.sed by, in tribute.

To his rear, he heard the steady, droning tones of Klim Dokachin, describing to Deanna in crushing detail his record-keeping mechanism. Riker briefly tuned in.

"... and then you have to make subcategories according to tonnage. Some people like to cla.s.sify by propulsion system, but I find that can lead to confusion. A galaxy-cla.s.s ship like this one, for instance, employs a fifth-phase reactor. But you might find that in a scout ship, too. It gets messy."

"I can see that," murmured Troi, and Riker smiled to himself. Her eyes must be glazing over by now.

"Commander," interjected Worf's brusque voice, "we are approaching the designated coordinates."

"On screen," said Riker, and everyone turned expectantly to see the Vulcan ship. What they saw was the starfield-empty s.p.a.ce.

Klim Dokachin's jaw dropped when he found himself staring at section eighteen-gamma-twelve and there was no ship in sight. One moment he had held the beautiful woman enraptured with his discourse on the surplus depot, now he was staring at what seemed to be proof that his immaculate record-keeping sys-tem was faulty.

He felt the others looking at him, puzzled, as he stepped toward the screen. "Where is it?" he breathed, staring at the starfield as though he could will the Vulcan ship to appear. "What happened to it?" Check the coordinates, his mind told him, and he stepped to the console, tapped carefully. Glancing over his shoulder he found the ship had not magically appeared. "These are the correct coordinates," he found himself saying apologetically.

The beard spoke. "The T'Pau is missing?"

"The T'Pau," began Klim intently-and then he looked up at the starfield, and back at the array of faces looking expectantly at him-"is missing," he intoned.

The beard's eyes narrowed. "How could a ship disappear from your depot?"

Klim began to feel chastened. His professional integrity was being questioned. He drew a deep breath and turned back to the console. He would not crumble before these judgmental intruders.

"I'm not accustomed to losing things, Commander," he said resolutely. "I'11 find your ship for you." He began to work the keys with furious intent. "I have the T'Pau cross-referenced in four different directories."

"When it was brought here, was it stripped of materiel-armament, sensors?" This was from the dark one with the instrument on his eyes.

"Of course," said Dokachin, still working to locate the missing ship.

"Can you tell us what happened to its navigational deflector?"

Klim looked at the monitor. He had accessed a processing file on the T'Pau and was able to determine the disposition of its materiel. "It was routed to the Tripoli, a holding vessel on the outer rim of the shipyard." The beard jumped in. "It's not there anymore. What's left of that deflector is laid out on the floor of our cargo bay."

Suddenly Klim Dokachin was frightened. Things beyond his control were happening. He had trusted his records, his books, his files, and they were crumbling before him. Until now, if his computer said something was stored somewhere, that's where it was. There was surety in his system. If that was gone, what else was there? How could he count on anything?

"How can that be?" he breathed weakly.

"Maybe we ought to pay a visit to the Tripoli," said the beard. Dokachin realized he was afraid to go there.

But of course they did. He gave the coordinates to the helmsman-he tried to make his voice sound as confident as the first time-and they maneuvered their way through the shipyard. Dokachin was silent for a long time, his mind racing to find a rational explanation for the missing ship. But none of the possibilities he constructed held up for very long. It would seem he had made an error. The T'Pau was not in s.p.a.ce eighteen-gamma-twelve; it was somewhere else, and he couldn't imagine how to begin tracking it. Had someone made a logging error? Had some junior computer operator a.s.signed the ship to another s.p.a.ce and failed to make the correct entry?

But he himself always checked those entries, just to prevent something like this from happening. He felt himself sinking lower into the chair, the weight of his misery crushing him.

"Mr. Dokachin, I'm sure there's a reason for this, and we'll find it." It was the beautiful woman with her beautiful voice and her beautiful sensitivity. He took refuge in the comfort of her large, dark eyes; it was as though he dared not look away from them. For the first time, he felt like speaking.

"In all the time the Zakdorn have operated this depot, nothing's ever been lost," he a.s.sured her. "Never." She nodded sympathetically and he felt better. "I'll tell you this-somebody will pay. I'll conduct an investigation. Whoever is responsible-"

"Approaching the coordinates of the Tripoli, sir." The guttural growl of a formidable Klingon interrupted Dokachin's discourse. Klim felt himself go queasy, and he was aware that the beard looked in his direction. He tried to appear nonchalant. "On screen," said the beard. The Tripoli was not in its a.s.signed docking position. Dokachin was devastated. "I do not understand this. This is not possible." His universe was giving way beneath him. Nothing made sense.

"We beam goods to the Tripoli on a regular schedule," said Dokachin desperately. "There was a shipment yesterday, and another is set for today. It must be there." "When is today's transport?"

"Just over two hours from now. A shipment of deuterium storage tanks."

The beard considered this for a moment, then turned toward the Conn. "Ensign, align the Enterprise so we'll appear to be one of the abandoned ships. Mr. La Forge, when we're in position, shut down engines and all systems except sensors and life support."

"Aye, sir."

The beard moved toward a chair that Dokachin a.s.sumed was that of command.

"I'm guessing somebody's going to be here to receive those sensors-and I'd be very interested to see who it is."

Hearing the man's quiet authority, Dokachin felt better. He looked at the woman, and she smiled warmly at him. For the first time, he felt a camaraderie with these starship people. Whatever was going on here, they were in it together.

Chapter Eight.

THIS TIME Picard knew it was a dream and he struggled to come out of it. He was flailing in a cloud of cold fog, crying and raging; another man was standing a distance away, struggling to free him from the oppressive cloud. Or perhaps that second person was himself... a second Picard... ? Who was it? He strained to make his way toward the man, but the roiling billows of icy vapor took on substance, and kept him from moving forward.

He could not remember ever being so cold. It was a bitter, damp cold that seeped into his muscles and joints and paralyzed them with pain. And it was such a sad thing to be cold; he sobbed with griefi Then, still wracked with anguish, he felt anger rising, a fury at the cold and damp, a frenzied flame within him, which ripped through his insides until he became uncontrollably furious. He raged at the crippling chill, shrieking his wrath until the sheer force of his fury helped warm him.

No! This weakness disgusts me/I hate it! Where is the logic? I am betrayed... betrayed... betrayed...

Someone else was with him now-was it the figure he had seen before? And who was he?-trying to pull him from the icy bog. A pinpoint of light appeared in the depths of the foggy mists, a light that glowed golden, spreading larger and larger, casting a warmth that seemed to melt the numbing cold, an orb that grew bigger and brighter, heat, welcome heat...

Where had the other man gone?

Picard opened his eyes and found himself looking into Data's face, his yellow eyes reflecting concern. "Sir? Perhaps we have studied sufficiently. You might want to go to bed."

Picard sat upright in the chair and discovered himself still in the cramped quarters on the Klingon ship Kruge. He felt as though he had been out for hours. "How long was I asleep, Mister Data?" he asked, his mouth dry and his voice hoa.r.s.e.

"I do not believe you were asleep, sir," replied the android. "You closed your eyes for only a fraction of a second."

Picard stared at him briefly, then dropped his eyes to the padds on the table. They had been studying Romulan culture. It seemed like hours ago. He picked up his padd and keyed it, wanting desperately to regain a feeling of normaIcy. He forced himself to focus on the padd, where the words blurred and swam before his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut until he felt sure that when he opened them, they would behave as he willed.

Sarek was part of him. Whenever he slept, Sarek crept inside him, possessing him, becoming him. As he drew nearer to Spock, he couM feel Sarek more and more strongly.

Picard was startled when the door opened suddenly and K'Vada strode in. The strapping Klingon captain looked as threatening as ever and yet Picard sensed not menace but something he couldn't quite pinpoint. A certain solicitude? Puzzled, Picard gazed up at him.

"Captain. In monitoring subs.p.a.ce messages we picked up a piece of information that might interest you." He handed a padd to Picard, who glanced at it, instantly absorbed the message, and had to steel himself to respond in a normal voice.

"Thank you, Captain." K'Vada gazed at him for a moment more, as though something might be forthcoming, then nodded and withdrew.

Data was staring at him, waiting patiently for an explanation to this peculiar scene. Picard turned to him and, as evenly as he could, read the message.

"Sarek is dead."

He heard himself say the words and that gave them reality; until that moment he wasn't sure if he might not be back in the dream. But the close Klingon quarters were real, and the dim lighting, and the miserable chair, and Data gazing at him with imperturbable saffron eyes. And the padd in his hand was real, and so, he knew, was its message.

He turned to the chair and sat, feeling disoriented. The room spun slightly and he fastened his eyes on the padd.

Then he felt something icy move through him, and he shivered.

Riker felt like laughing. Or humming. Or pacing or driving his fist into his palm. Instead, he sat in the command chair, staring at the viewscreen as though at any moment it would provide the answer to the question they were all asking: Who was receiving the transport of the materiel routinely beamed to a cargo ship that apparently no longer existed?

Riker could feel his heart rate rising; the hammer of his pulse in his temple sounded like timpani. It was a heady, sensual feeling and he reveled in it. It brought to bear sensations with which he was not consciously in touch-the thrill of hunt, of combat, and conquest, akin to l.u.s.t. Was it racial memory? There was certainly nothing in his experience that would account for the feelings coursing through him now as they waited silently in the black cold of s.p.a.ce for a confrontation with the unknown.

But he no longer felt restless.

He stared at the viewing screen, which showed only an inky s.p.a.ce punctuated by stars. His eyes burned into the image, seeking anything abnormal, when- "Commander, sensors detect a ship approaching at warp speed." Worf's announcement was a crisp growl.

The pulse in Riker's temple drummed harder.

"Identification?"

"Negative. No transponder signal. No subs.p.a.ce marker."

"Sounds like they don't want to be identified." This a staccato punctuation from Geordi.

"The ship is coming out of warp now," continued Worf.

Riker stared at the viewscreen, scrutinizing it with fierce concentration, looking for the covert ship. He could see a faint blip, almost indistinguishable.

"Magnify," he breathed, and the blip jumped into relief.

It was dark, huge, and ominous. It was bristling with armament but carried absolutely no marking of any kind. Riker stared at it, breathless, awed by its proud malevolence.

"Sensors indicate a combat vessel... origin undetermined... heavily armed." Geordi's composed voice seemed at odds with the fearsome image he described. "Ma.s.s and density suggest it's fully loaded with cargo. From the look of these internal scans, I'd guess a good part of that cargo is weap-onry."

Riker watched as the dark ship swung away from them and slowed. "The ship is moving into section twelve-beta-three," announced Worf.

"It's taking the position a.s.signed to the Tripoli," said the Zakdorn. "The coordinates are identical."

"Commander," interrupted Geordi, "readings indicate the surface-to-ship transport has begun."

This produced an instant and irate reaction from Dokachin. "He's taking my deuterium tanks!"

"Bring the engines back on line, Mr. La Forge," said Riker, "and restore all systems to normal."

But the sinister ship wasn't waiting around now that it had the goods. "He's powering up engines, sir," barked Worf.

"Open a channel," retorted Riker, and rose to approach the screen. "Open, sir."

"This is Commander William Riker of the U.S.S. Enterprise. Identify yourself."

Several seconds pa.s.sed, in the silence of which Riker could feel his heart pelting his rib cage. "I repeat: you have entered a Federation depot. Identify yourself."

"Sir, the ship is locking phaser banks." "Shields up. Red alert."

The whine of red alert and the red flashing strobes signaled the onset of combat readiness. Riker could feel the tension on the bridge rise another notch. "That ship easily matches our armament, Commander," Geordi noted.

That was a theory Riker hoped he didn't have to prove. On the screen, they all watched as the giant ship slowly hove to and swung to face them. Riker stepped a bit closer to the screen.

"If you do not respond to our hails, we will take that as evidence of hostile action."

"There is an energy buildup in their phaser banks- sir, they are activating weapons!" roared Worf, and before Riker could respond, a mighty WHUMP! struck the Enterprise, jolting them and causing lights to flicker. Worf's voice cut through the commotion. "Forward shields down to seventy-two percent-"

"Boost power to the shields," snapped Riker. "Mr. Worf, target their weapon systems only and prepare to fire-" But the other ship had already loosed another barrage and the Enterprise took an even heavier wallop. Several of the bridge consoles sparked furious-ly, and emergency lighting sprang on.

"Forward shields at sixty-eight percent, aft shields forty percent."

"On my mark, a point-seven-five burst only. We just want to slow them down." Geordi might feel that the dark ship was their match, but Riker felt sure the Enterprise weapons could fatally damage the other vessel, and he wanted to avoid that. He was more interested in answers than in destruction. "Mr. Worf-fire," he ordered curtly, and Worf let loose with a staggered phaser array. Riker knew it wouldn't cause irreparable harm to such a st.u.r.dy ship, but it would sure as h.e.l.l get their attention. He watched with satisfaction as the spread of phaser fire hit at various points on the ship.

"Their forward shields are damaged, sir," announced Worf, with perhaps just a hint of triumph. But it was Geordi's voice that cut in now. "We destroyed one of their phaser arrays... looks like collateral damage in the cargo area." Geordi scrutinized his sensor readings carefully, then said in an alarmed voice, "Sir, I'm picking up ma.s.sive power fluctuations... internal explosions... with all the armament that ship is carryingmit's going to blow!"

Even with that warning, Riker wasn't prepared for what happened next.

The dark ship exploded in a cataclysmic eruption of flame and fire. Secondary explosions followed one after the other in a succession of towering blasts; extruded matter was hurled hundreds of kilometers into s.p.a.ce. The catastrophic explosions continued until the viewers on the Enterprise could not imagine there being any matter left to detonate, but the molten core continued to erupt, spewing still more slabs of burning metal.

When it was over, there was nothing left. It was as though every bit of matter in the ship had been pulverized. Small flaming chunks drifted toward them, brought into sharp relief by the ship's sensors, though they were still thousands of kilometers away. Those last blazing embers gradually extinguished and became dust, and presently, there was only darkness and the undisturbed starfield. It was as though the ship had never existed.

Chapter Nine.

"WELL, MR. DATA-what do you think?"

They were still in their cramped quarters aboard the Klingon ship Kruge. Picard pa.s.sed a mirror to Data, who took it and held it in front of him.