As
you may or may not have noticed, “The Odyssey” was delayed considerably back in
August 2002. So great was the delay
that the episode did not premiere until January 2003. And there was good reason for the delay. It was the dreaded… “THE EPISODE FROM HELL!”
The
main problem was simple: I was trying
to cram six episodes worth of plot into two episodes. I suppose it would have been an okay episode had I bothered to
finish it… but quite frankly, as was the case with much of season three, I was simply
not happy with what was being written.
And since this was one of the episodes I had envisioned near the beginning
of TFF’s run, an “okay” episode simply wasn’t going to cut it this time around. So I stopped writing it, allowed the plot to
germinate in my mind for a month or two, and came back weeks later to craft “The
Odyssey” you saw back in January.
A
lot changed during that brief hiatus—especially the Elorg storyline. In this unused version of “The Odyssey,” you
shall duly note that Xi'Yor is actively campaigning to create an alliance
between the Elorg and the Ghaib. The
latter half of the third season also devoted a lot of time to this alliance… Well,
I decided to take the Elorg in a different direction during the hiatus—and the
Ghaib were not a part of that. Thus, Xi'Yor’s
role in the arc was scaled back considerably.
Not
all was lost, however. Because the plot
was essentially the same—just expanded—I was able to reuse many scenes from
this unfinished crappy version in the official version of “The Odyssey.” Enjoy.
Overseer Xi'Yor slowly leaned back in the
dreadfully soft chair nestled in the far corner of his cell. He expelled a weary sigh, and slowly turned
his vivid orange eyes upon Talyere Rosat, who sat in meditation on the floor a
few meters away. In Xi'Yor’s opinion,
it was a frivolous activity—but much to his chagrin, after many months in
captivity, it was the only activity he had seen, and it had become so
much a part of the daily routine that he had learned to tolerate it. In fact, Xi'Yor had come to tolerate almost
every facet of his incarceration—and that in itself was a problem.
On an Elorg vessel, conditions were
ideal. Prisoners were held in dark,
claustrophobic rooms that were gratuitously furnished with the remains of
previous inhabitants. On occasion, they
were fed a few meager scraps—but most of the time, the lowly pariahs were
simply left to die. The more important
prisoners were held in interrogation chambers and mercilessly tortured for
vital information until they perished.
In Xi'Yor’s opinion, the Elorg set the precedent for all
incarcerations. And the Ghaib obviously
knew nothing of those precedents…
Very slowly, Xi'Yor clenched his fists and
pounded them on the arms of his chair.
“How long will they hold us?” he demanded. It was the first time Xi'Yor had spoken in several days, and the
sound of his deeply powerful voice sounded almost alien to him. Still, compared to Talyere’s mindless
platitudes, it was a pleasant change of pace.
As he completed his meditation, Talyere
indolently shook his head. “I know
not,” he carefully replied. “Perhaps
they shall release us tomorrow. Or perhaps
they will hold us indefinitely. The
Ghaib work in mysterious ways.”
A bit too mysterious for Xi'Yor’s
liking. Though he didn’t mind a bit of
intrigue, Xi'Yor preferred to meet with his adversaries face to face—that way
he could see the fear burning in their pathetic eyes. “Perhaps we have simply been chasing shadows,” he prompted. “The Ghaib may be nothing more than
inconsequential pacifists.”
Talyere’s eyes glimmered with
curiosity. Xi'Yor had seen the gaze
many times before, and knew that if the pattern held true, an exhaustive, pedantic
conversation would soon follow. Thus,
the key was to break the pattern—and Xi'Yor had a brilliant idea…
He had given serious consideration to
Talyere’s demise on numerous occasions over the past several months. Of course, Xi'Yor always recanted the
thoughts in case he required Talyere’s assistance. But locked in this pristine holding cell, Xi'Yor’s use for
Talyere had finally reached its end…
But much to Xi'Yor’s chagrin, his plan got
no further than a simple notion, for the moment he resigned to rid himself of
Talyere, the doors at the front of the room parted with mechanical
fanfare. A tall shadowy figure loomed
ominously at the threshold, peering inside the cell as if expecting an
attack—though once it became apparent that no such attack would happen, the
figure left behind its ominous shadows, and Tracker Melas stepped into the
light…
“You wished to see me?” prompted the alien.
Xi'Yor scoffed at the sentiment. “Three months ago,” he stated.
Melas sympathetically gestured with his
clawed fists. “I’m a busy man,” he
proclaimed. “Now, if you have something
to say… I suggest you do so.”
“Very well…” Over the past several months, Xi'Yor had accumulated thousands of
somethings to share with Tracker Melas—and he very much desired to give
the pedantic little bird a piece of his mind.
But amidst that chaotic sea of thoughts, Xi'Yor’s primary reason for
seeking out Melas remained near the surface—and now that he finally had
his chance to speak with the enigmatic avian, he wasn’t about to lose sight of
his mission. “I have a proposition for
you…”
Melas cocked his head. “Of what kind?” he
demanded.
Xi'Yor could tell that Melas was barely
intrigued by the sentiment—and that he needed to act quickly if he wished to
maintain his captor’s attention. “I’m
proposing an alliance…”
* *
*
As far as Alan Christopher was concerned, Earth
did not extend much beyond the city of San Francisco. Though he visited many places during his tenure at Starfleet Academy,
the time Alan spent at those myriad locations was always brief—never more than
a couple of hours (save the remote wilderness training in the Canadian Rockies,
but that was another story altogether).
San Francisco was his home, and that was where he tended to stay. Thus, when Erin suggested they visit Earth
for their honeymoon, Alan found the notion most appealing.
The better part of twenty years had passed
since his days at the Academy, and though Alan’s subsequent life was peppered
with infrequent visits to Earth, none of them had lasted more than a few
days. But now, he would have three
entire weeks to explore Earth’s greatest wonders. Relatively speaking, three weeks was hardly a drop in the
galactic bucket of time—but with Erin at his side, Alan was certain they would
make the best of their three weeks in paradise.
Alan stood at the foot of his bed, carefully
going through his limited wardrobe in search of the clothes he would bring to
Earth. “The first thing I’m to do when
we get to there is… probably go to the bathroom,” he playfully announced. “Yes, the Aztec is a fine ship, but
between you and me, it’s facilities are a bit… lacking.”
Erin giggled. Alan briefly allowed himself to believe that his cunning
statements about the Aztec’s facilities had instilled the laughter, but
given the commotion on the bed, he knew that was not the case.
Sitting in Alan’s travel bag less
than a meter away was his special helper—dearest Angela—and though she was
dreadfully cute, Alan duly noted that everything he put in the bag was
summarily thrown out, making his helper anything but helpful.
Erin smiled, and quickly sat down on the bed
beside Angela. “What are you doing,
silly?”
The little girl giggled, and swiftly stood
up to give her mommy a hug. “I’m digging,”
she stated.
“For what?” Erin inquired, drawing herself
closer to the girl. “Treasure?”
Angela shook her head, and happily went back
to her digging. “I’m gonna get a
cookie,” she proclaimed. “They’re
blue!”
For some reason, Alan did not recall placing
the said cookies in his bag—nor did he have a chance to check, for the pleasant
tweedle of the door chime suddenly lanced the air. In his mind, Alan could already hear
Matthew delivering some sort of status report that was totally irrelevant—and
with that in mind, he was almost tempted to turn to Erin and ask, “What door
chime?”
But better judgment soon kicked in, and Alan
soon vacated his position at the foot of the bed, and casually strolled into
the main chamber. “Enter.”
Moments later, the doors parted, and Riana
Christopher stepped inside, bringing with her all the warmth and kindness that
Alan had been blind to only a few days prior.
Suddenly, he felt guilty for even thinking about ignoring the
chime.
Riana slowly approached her son with a kind
smile upon her face. “Alan,” she said
softly, “our ship is scheduled to depart for the Kilka Sector in
half-an-hour. Is Angela ready to go?”
Alan peered back into the bedroom. Angela and Erin were still playing on the
bed—as far from ready as possible.
Of course, he had come to expect that from women and had anticipated
this tardiness; Angela’s bags were packed and ready to go. Alan gestured to a bright pink bag on the table
near the dining area. “All of Angela’s
things are in there,” he said. “Now,
remember, she doesn’t like carrots. Her
favorite dolls are Flotter and Eyeore, and she likes to hear a story before…”
Riana smiled, and carefully plucked the bag
from the table. “Alan,” she politely
interjected, “you outlined all of this in that fifty page report you gave us
yesterday.”
Actually, it was forty-seven pages, but Alan
was not about to argue. It was
an extensive report, and that was probably just the point that Riana was trying
to make. “I’m just concerned about
Angela, that’s all…”
Riana’s smile widened, and she placed a
caring hand upon Alan’s shoulder.
“Don’t you worry,” she assured him.
“Once upon a time, your father and I had to put up with you and
your sister. We might be a little
rusty, but I’m sure we can handle one little girl.”
“And spoil her rotten, no doubt,” Erin
suddenly added as she and Angela emerged from the bedroom. She planted a big kiss on the little girl’s
forehead, and then carefully relinquished her to Riana.
Riana’s grin widened she wrapped her arms
around Angela’s tiny body. Angela
squirmed for a moment, but quickly realized that Grandma was one of her
favorite people—and subsequently dished out a considerable hug and a slobbery
kiss. “Of course we’ll spoil her
rotten,” said Riana with a smile.
“That’s our job!”
Angela giggled. “I love you, Gram!”
“I love you too, sweetheart!” Riana replied,
gently running her fingers through Angela’s wild blonde hair.
Suddenly, three weeks seemed like an
eternity. Alan was crazy about his
daughter, and the thought of being away from her was torture. “You know,” said Alan softly, “if you can’t
handle Angela, you can always reach us at the Hilt—”
“Alan,” Erin coyly interrupted, “I think someone
has you wrapped around her little finger…”
In all his imaginings, Alan never saw himself
as someone fond of children. They were
annoying little vermin that asked too many questions and soiled their
pants. But then came Angela, and
everything changed. Yes, he was
wrapped around her little finger… And darn proud of it. Still, it was three weeks. And he would survive.
He quickly lowered his face to
Angela’s—which rested gently upon Riana’s shoulder—and smiled. “You’re going to have fun at Gram’s house,”
he said. “She’s going to make sure you
have lots of fun toys to play with.”
“And cookies,” Angela added.
“And cookies,” Alan confirmed. “Blue ones.”
The mere mention of the oft-mentioned
cookies caused Angela’s face to light up with glee. “Yay!”
Alan grinned, and gently kissed her
forehead. “Good-bye, Angela!”
She immediately kissed him back. “Good-bye, Daddy!”
As Alan wiped the slobber from his cheek,
Erin quickly stepped in to bid farewell, and within a few minutes, Angela and
Riana were well on their way to the Kilka Sector—and Alan was ready to head out
to Earth. “I’m ready to leave whenever
you are,” he said to Erin a moment later.
“All I have to do is throw my stuff in a bag.”
“I’m just about ready, too,” said Erin—much
to Alan’s surprise. She quickly
retreated to the bedroom, and emerged a moment later with two hefty bags slung
over her shoulders, and a third bag in tow behind her.
Alan’s eyes widened at the sight. “We’re only going to be gone for three weeks,”
he reiterated. “Not three years. Are you bringing everything in our quarters,
or something?”
A coy grin fell upon Erin’s face as she
dropped her bags to the floor. “Listen,
buddy,” she said, poking Alan with her finger, “I have a lot of sh—”
Alan’s communicator suddenly chirped. “Harrison to Christopher,” came
Matthew’s voice a moment later.
“I’m on vacation,” Alan promptly replied.
“So this had better be quick.”
There was a brief moment of hesitation on
Matthew’s behalf. “I am sorry to
interrupt,” Harrison finally replied, “but your presence is required in
main engineering…” And in that
instant, Alan realized that quick was certainly not something on the
Commander’s mind, and that his trip to Earth was as good as over.
* * *
Five minutes later, Christopher stood with
Matthew Harrison and Lucas Tompkins around the master control station in main
engineering. Coming into the meeting,
Christopher had a hunch that situation loomed on his horizon—but it was not
until he stood beside his comrades did he realize the extent of it. Both Tompkins and Harrison looked rather
grim, and Christopher’s mood was immediately turned sullen as he turned to
Harrison for a report.
“Remember that probe we dispatched to the
Zhargosia Sector a few weeks ago?” Harrison started.
Christopher nodded. He had only a vague recollection of the
event, but he was aware of the probe’s existence. “What’s wrong?”
“We lost contact with it earlier this
morning,” Tompkins continued. “At first
I thought there was some sort of problem with the interplexing beacon, but then
I cleared up the last few seconds of telemetry.” He tapped a few commands into the computer. “Take a look at this…”
A holographic representation of the
spherical probe suddenly flitted to life over the workstation. It hung in the silent air for a placid
moment before a maelstrom of violet light erupted beneath the probe. The probe helplessly bobbled at the
threshold gaping maw; it seemed to struggle for a moment, but the probe’s
miniscule thrusters did little to counter the distortion’s voracity. Before long, wisps of violet light wrapped themselves
around the helpless probe—and in the blink of an eye, both the probe and the
distortion were gone.
Christopher immediately felt a wave of
uncertainty wash over his body—but before he had a chance to explore the
emotion, Commander Harrison punched a few commands into his side of the console. “It gets worse,” he stated as a jumble of
fragmented data scrolled across the computer screen. “The moment the probe disappeared, we picked up this distress
signal from the USS Exeter.”
Tompkins alluded to a few blocks of text on
the screen. “We haven’t been able to
decode the audio or visual feeds,” he said, “but based upon the text we’ve
decoded, they’re in trouble.”
“However,” Harrison continued, “there is no
sign of the Exeter or any debris on long-range sensors.”
Christopher expelled a long, weary
sigh. “If I recall correctly, the Exeter
was a part of that ill-fated armada dispatched to the Zhargosia Sector after
the Enterprise was destroyed. Is
it possible we’re picking up some sort of echo?”
Tompkins shook his head. “The signal was sent on stardate
74957.4. That’s more than a month after
the Exeter and company disappeared.”
“Which means there is a chance they are
still alive,” Harrison surmised.
Christopher nodded. “I suppose it’s possible,” he stated. “But why haven’t we picked up their
distress signal?”
“I don’t know,” Tompkins admitted. “Hell, this could be a trap, for all we
know.”
The thought had definitely crossed
Christopher’s mind. Over the past
several months, every starship that set course for the Zhargosia Sector
subsequently embarked upon a voyage of the damned. They were never heard from again… But suddenly, the Exeter had risen from the ashes—and it
was more than a little curious. “It is
almost like bait,” Christopher mumbled.
“Is there anything to disprove the validity of the transmission?”
“Nothing thus far,” Harrison stated. “Commander Reinbold and Lieutenant Johnson
are presently attempting to reconstruct the message in its entirety. That will undoubtedly shed some light on the
situation, however, due to the message’s extreme level of degradation, their
task may take some time.”
“How much?” asked Christopher.
“Too much,” Harrison replied. “At least two days.”
“We don’t have two days,” Christopher
grumbled. “If the message is real, we’d
be putting the Exeter’s crew in greater risk.”
“But if it’s fake,” Tompkins countered,
“we’d be putting ourselves at risk.”
Christopher clenched his fists and gently
pounded them into the workstation before him.
“This is not good,” he muttered.
The Exeter was a Nova-class starship.
With a minimal armament and a crew of
only seventy-eight, it wasn’t designed to wage war alone in the heart of the
Zhargosia Sector. And if it really was
in trouble, Christopher doubted it could sustain itself much longer… They needed to take action, and soon. “Are there any other starships in range?”
Tompkins glanced at the sensors. “The Ares is three days away at
maximum warp,” he reported.
The Ares was a heavily armed Sovereign-class
vessel. Its presence had the potential
to turn the tide of any battle, and Christopher very much wanted the warship at
his side. But he wasn’t about to wait
around for three days while the crew of the Exeter was in peril. The Starlight was also a very capable
warship—and it would have to suffice.
“Matthew,” he said, turning to his first officer, “set a course for the
Zhargosia Sector. I’ll be in my
quarters breaking the bad news to Erin…”
“An alliance?”
The words fell from Tracker Melas’ mouth
with incredible doubt—and Talyere Rosat was not surprised. In fact, he had anticipated such a response
the moment Xi'Yor decided to seek out Melas almost five months ago. But Xi'Yor—blinded by his desire to restore
the Elorg Bloc—was totally oblivious to the futility of his plan.
Melas expelled a disgusted sigh, and took a
few steps closer to his prisoners. “We
have no interest in you, or any of the species in your galaxy,” he calmly
replied.
And Melas’ pretentious calm forced Xi'Yor
from his chair in a fit of rage. “What
about El Toris II?” he demanded. “What
about the buildup in the Zhargosia Sector?
And the devices discovered on our starships? You certainly seem interested in our species…”
“We are simply collecting data,” replied
Melas.
Talyere did not believe that for a
second. In fact, he was convinced the
Ghaib were conducting much more than a simple investigation. But he knew his place, and didn’t dare speak
while Xi'Yor was ‘negotiating.’
“I would like to see this data,” Xi'Yor
stated.
Melas’ beady black eyes narrowed to
skeptical slits. “You are a prisoner,”
he stated evenly. “Your demands are
worthless, and your curiosity is sorely misplaced. Our business is none of your concern.”
Over the years, Xi'Yor had seen much
disrespect, and his method of dealing with that insolence was simple: he would
simply terminate anyone who stood in his way.
But as the Overseer stood before the imposing Tracker Melas, there was
little he could do to take the alien’s life.
If the situation deteriorated, and a fight erupted, Melas’ agile avian
frame gave him a distinct advantage over Xi'Yor. What Xi'Yor needed was an advantage of his own…
He slowly stepped closer to Melas. Talyere was expecting some sort of
forcefield to appear and hinder the Overseer’s approach, but it never
happened. Melas was an intrepid man. “How long do you intend to hold us?” Xi'Yor
tactfully inquired.
“As long as necessary,” Melas replied. And on that cryptic note, he turned on his
heel and left.
Talyere could hear Xi'Yor’s discontented
sigh even before the doors slammed shut behind Tracker Melas. The encounter went poorly to say the least,
for the outcome left Xi'Yor in a position he had not anticipated… He was still
a prisoner. “Did you really believe
Melas would rally to your cause?”
Xi'Yor cast Talyere an ominous gaze. “I was well aware of the odds,” he
conceded. “But I was expecting Melas to
be more receptive. The Elorg have—”
“—nothing to offer,” Talyere
interjected. He did not even care what
Xi'Yor had to say—because his statement was true. “Like it or not, Xi'Yor, our people have fallen
from grace. We are the scourge of the
universe… Melas will never ally
himself with us.”
Xi'Yor smiled thinly. It was a forced gesture, and did little to
mask the Overseer’s brewing anger—but not even Xi'Yor could deny the truth in
Talyere’s statement. “I will have to be
more persuasive the next time we meet with Tracker Melas,” he proclaimed.
Talyere failed miserably in dissembling his
lack of enthusiasm for that piece of information. “Xi'Yor,” he said softly, “perhaps we should concentrate our energies
on something slightly more productive—such as escape… I believe Tracker Melas made his position quite clear, and unless
we attempt to escape, I suspect he will allow us to spend the rest of our lives
in this holding cell.”
“Escape,” Xi'Yor softly repeated. The word rolled off his tongue like poison,
for it was obviously the last thing on his mind. “Escape to where?”
“That is a good question,” Talyere
admitted. In his myriad ponderings, he
had yet to plot that far into the future; his primary concern had been escaping
the confines of their cell, and little more.
“I don’t suppose I have an answer…”
Xi'Yor tried not to gloat too much,
but a devious smile still managed to creep across his face. “My point exactly…”
“We’re approaching the probe’s last known
position,” Neelar Drayge reported from the Starlight’s helm. The young Bolian was as concise and
efficient as usual, but Christopher couldn’t help but notice a tinge of
apprehension in his voice. Clearly,
something was bothering Neelar—and Christopher had the distinct feeling their
presence in the Zhargosia Sector might have something to do with it…
For the past hour, that very same
apprehension caused the Captain to pace mindlessly back-and-forth behind the
helm. Had the deck beneath his feet not
been composed of durotanium alloys, Christopher was certain he would have worn
a trench into the floor. Every once and
awhile, he would endeavor to sit in the command chair, but he rarely sat for
longer than a couple of moments. The
death and destruction seen in the Zhargosia Sector in recent weeks weighed
heavily upon his shoulders, and as they approached the forbidden region,
Christopher couldn’t help but wonder if they would be next…
They were about to find out.
“Erin,” he said, “any sign of the Exeter?”
Keller’s angelic brown eyes briefly shot
downward to confer with the sensors, only to return a short moment later. “No,” she bluntly replied. “In fact, I’m not picking up any
starships in the Zhargosia Sector… or any debris, for that matter. There’s nothing here.”
Christopher bit his lip. On that note, his mind was essentially ready
to bring the ship about and retreat to friendly territory. But with the crew of the Exeter still
unaccounted for, his heart insisted they stay.
“Prepare to launch anot—”
“Hang on,” Bator suddenly interrupted.
Christopher could hear the tactical station
bleeping, and his heart was immediately in his throat—and a bit more inclined
to agree with his mind’s assessment of the situation. “What is it?” he inquired.
The Phobian furrowed his brow. “I am uncertain,” he admitted as he tapped
at his workstation. “There appears to
be some sort of interspatial flexure just ahead.”
“A rift of some kind?” Harrison proposed.
Bator nodded wearily. “Again, I am uncertain. The fabric of space is definitely folded
inward, however, there is nothing at the heart of the disturbance to cause such
a phenomenon.”
“Maybe it’s a natural curve?” Christopher
suggested.
Much to his chagrin, Neelar Drayge quickly
shot down the theory. “According to our
astrometric data, this phenomenon doesn’t exist. If it’s naturally occurring, it formed within the past few days… ”
“Or perhaps this morning,” Harrison
suggested, “when a large rift enveloped our probe.”
“Whatever the case,” Erin Keller
interjected, “the rift is sealed, and according to my sensors, it’s
slowly withering away. It should be
completely gone within a week.”
Christopher sensed a dead end in the very
near future. The Exeter was
gone. The probe was gone. And the rift was on its way out. “Keep scanning the region,” he said
softly. “If we don’t find anything
within an hour, we’re getting the heck out of here.” The less time spent in the Zhargosia Sector, the better…
Melas looked up from the latest sensor sweep
of the Zukara Segment and scratched his beak with his clawed fingers. He casually glanced out the small portal in
the corner of his cramped office. The
vast starfield crept by at a snail’s pace, eternally shimmering over an
expansive swirl of stars in the distance—a galaxy often referred to as the
Milky Way. From afar, it was an
incredible sight—but Melas knew better than most of his kind that when placed
under the microscope, the Milky Way was nothing extraordinary.
The same could be said of the sensor
sweeps. The Zukara Segment was indeed a
place of wonder, but when expressed as hundreds of paragraphs of text, it lost
much of its appeal. Melas struggled to
keep his eyes open at times—and then of course, when they were open, the
Tracker’s thoughts was elsewhere… mainly with Overseer Xi'Yor.
Slowly, Melas pulled his eyes from the
starfield and started to shift them back to the computer screen—but about
halfway into the act, he glimpsed someone at his door—a pale, thin fellow by
the name of Iydia quietly stepped between the parting doors and politely bowed
his head. “I hope I am not disturbing
you,” he said.
Melas shook his head. “Of course not,” he replied. “What can I do for you, Consultant?”
The doors slid shut behind Iydia. He peered at Melas through skeptical eyes,
and then seated himself in the chair before the Tracker’s desk. “The question is: What can I do for you? You have seemed troubled lately.”
For a moment, Melas was hesitant to admit to
his troubles. But Iydia was a trained
professional; he knew something was wrong, and there was no keeping it
from him. “It is Overseer Xi'Yor,”
Melas finally proclaimed. “We must keep
a very close watch on him. He
knows too much. He poses a threat to
our plans.”
Iydia cocked his feathered head, and peered
into Melas’ eyes. “If he poses such a
threat, then he should be transferred to the Drusari.”
“The Drusari cannot be bothered with such
menial tasks,” Melas hissed. “Tending
to prisoners is our duty.”
“Well, if Xi'Yor poses such a threat to the
cause, then he is obviously worthy of the Drusari’s attention.” Iydia paused, and then drew himself
nearer. “We cannot afford a setback.”
Melas sighed. Iydia was correct in his assumption. For years, they had been preparing for the coming military operations,
and a setback now might prove disastrous.
“Very well,” he said after a moment.
“Transfer both prisoners to the Drusari…”
“Do you remember High Overseer Hatrel?”
The question seemed to come from nowhere,
but Overseer Xi'Yor knew the answer to Talyere’s inquiry all too well. “Yes,” he enigmatically replied. “I recall the High Overseer quite
well.”
Talyere nodded knowingly. “You terminated him, didn’t you?”
Xi'Yor paused, unsure if he should answer
the question truthfully or not. While
he had indeed terminated the ancient Hatrel—he to assume the High Overseer’s
position—Xi'Yor had done so with such grace and skill that the death was ruled
natural. Only the Cerebrate Z’danorax
had been made aware of the truth—and she, too, was dead. “Why do you ask?”
“I am curious,” Talyere said faintly.
“Then I would suggest you assume a more
apathetic stance,” Xi'Yor stated. “One
can never know when death will take hold…”
“So you did terminate him,” Talyere
announced.
Xi'Yor shrugged indolently, but did not
dignify Talyere’s statement with an answer.
Instead, he rose to his feet and began to make a grandiose gesture with
his arms—but much to his surprise, the doors suddenly parted, and four bulky
Ghaib stepped into the cell. Xi'Yor
immediately turned to the newcomers with an insidious smile. “Has Tracker Melas sent you?”
A fifth guard suddenly appeared at the
doorway. He was tall and lanky, with a
large yellowish beak and crimson eyes.
“I am Consultant Iydia,” said the Ghaib, “and yes, I have been dispatched
by Tracker Melas.”
Xi'Yor’s smile widened. “I knew he would reconsider my
proposal… An alliance with the Elorg
will prove beneficial to both our peoples.”
Iydia laughed once, a curt little scoff that
echoed throughout the chamber. “I
believe Melas made our stance quite clear,” he stated as he casually strolled
past his guards. “There will be no
alliance.”
Not ready to give up so easily, Xi'Yor
maintained his diplomatic smile.
“Perhaps if you allowed me a moment to state my case, you will be more—”
“I am not here to negotiate,” Iydia tersely
interrupted. And without further ado,
he turned to his guards and said, “Fire!”
Streaks of crimson light suddenly shot
across the room. Xi'Yor frantically
tried to evade the vanguard of doom, but his reflexes were no match for the
speed of the phaser beams. Before he
knew it, a splatter of thick black blood erupted from his shoulder.
And everything went dark…
Fifty-four minutes had passed, and the Starlight’s sensors
had yet to discover anything more than a few stray dust motes. They were nice dust motes, to say the least,
but with each second that passed, Alan Christopher’s interest in the dust
dwindled (not that there was much interest to begin with). He simply wanted to leave the Zhargosia
Sector while the ship was still in one piece.
But six minutes remained…
Christopher slowly paced before his command chair—much as he had
done for the past fifty-four minutes—and waited for the seconds to tick
away. But to his chagrin, the seconds
seemed to drag. Time always seemed to
pick the most inopportune moments to lag, and this was certainly one of
them. Normally, Christopher would be
content to wait it out, but not this time.
“Erin,” he said, quickly coming about to face his wife, “I take it
there’s nothing on sensors?”
She nodded. “Not a thing.”
“Then we’re getting the heck out of here.” And for the first time in what seemed like eons,
Captain Alan Christopher seated himself in the comforting contours of his
command chair. “Neelar,” he called,
“get us out of here, maximum warp.”
The Bolian smiled. “With
pleasure,” he replied. His deft fingers
quickly tapped at the control interface, and moments later, the Starlight
began to make its retreat.
But suddenly, the fabric of space exploded, belching a deep violet
shockwave into space. The Starlight
jolted violently upon impact, but the shields held the ship together—and when
the wave finally passed, the Starlight sat at the threshold of a gaping
violet maelstrom.
Neelar Drayge frantically tapped at the control interface,
desperate to pull the ship away from the massive fissure, but his efforts went
unnoticed, and the ship swiftly plunged into the rift. The deck plates began to vibrate as the Starlight
crossed the gaping threshold, and after a moment Christopher could see vibrant
tendrils of crimson energy crackling inside the distortion. He had faith in the shields’ ability to
protect them, but at times like this, Christopher wasn’t certain if that faith
would be enough—especially when the tendrils’ proximity to the ship began to
increase exponentially.
A few seconds later, the first of the chaotic tendrils lashed into
the shields. The ship rocked in
response, and Christopher’s grip on the command chair tightened.
“Shields down to eighty percent,” Bator announced.
Christopher saw the next tendril before it struck. He quickly grabbed his chair for leverage,
but his actions were too little, too late.
The ship roared a sonorous cacophony; sparks rained down from the
ceiling above, and before he knew it, Christopher was sprawled out on the
floor, engulfed in darkness.
It took a few seconds for the emergency lights to activate, and
when they did, he was relieved to see the bridge was still intact. Christopher swiftly brushed off the front of
his uniform, and hopped back into his seat.
An instant later, there was a blinding flash on the viewscreen—and
the distortion was gone, leaving a majestic pink and blue nebula in its wake.
“Damage report,” demanded Harrison, oblivious to the beautiful
sight on the viewscreen.
“Starboard dorsal
shielding has failed,” said Bator. “We
have a hull breach on decks ten and eleven, sections forty-three through
forty-eight. The transwarp manifold is
destroyed, and warp engines have sustained moderate damage. Sickbay reports three casualties, none
serious.”
Christopher breathed a sigh of relief. Though the damage sustained was serious, it was nothing that
could not be repaired. Things could
have been far worse if lady luck had not been on their side. He allowed his mind to linger for on the
damage report for a moment longer before turning his attention to the other
question floating in his mind: “What is our current position, Neelar?”
Drayge’s deft fingers quickly glided over the helm, but his answer
was not immediately forthcoming. In
fact, the Bolian seemed to ponder what Christopher thought to be a very simple
question for an extraordinary amount of time.
For a moment, he suspected Neelar had not heard his inquiry, but the
moment Christopher began to repeat himself, the helm emitted a series of shrill
bleeps.
Drayge slowly turned around the face Christopher, the look on his
face quizzical. “I can’t determine our
exact location,” he said a moment later.
“But if these sensor readings are accurate, we’ve just traveled over
80,000 light years… We’re not even in
the galaxy anymore.”
“Then where are we?” asked Harrison.
“GSC-2374-E,” Drayge gleaned from sensors. “It’s a large globular cluster orbiting the
galaxy. Without our transwarp drive,
it’s an eighty-year trip back to the Federation.”
“Even with the transwarp drive, that would be one hell of a
journey,” Erin Keller added. “Since
there aren’t any transwarp conduits around here, we’d have to make our
own. That’s ten years right there…”
Christopher pondered their predicament for a moment. “I’m guessing that little… subspace sinkhole
we fell into is long gone?”
“Completely,” Keller confirmed.
She uttered a few more words, but the numerous sensor alerts
erupting from the tactical station managed to catch the majority of Christopher’s
attention. “Bator?”
“Five alien vessels have just dropped out of warp,” he
reported. “They are on a direct
intercept course.”
“On screen,” said Christopher.
A moment later, five small vessels flitted onto the
viewscreen. It wasn’t the most ominous
fleet Christopher had ever witnessed; each small ship looked something like an
arrowhead, and as they approached the Starlight, the Captain’s concern
was only moderate. “Hail the lead
ship.”
Bator promptly complied with Christopher’s order. “No response,” he stated a moment later.
“They have increased to warp 8.7,” Drayge added. “At their present speed, they’ll intercept
us in thirty seconds.”
Not wanting to risk further damage to the Starlight,
Christopher’s course was clear: “Evasive maneuvers.”
The agile starship swiftly came about, and moments later, the
stars on the viewscreen streaked into a flash of white light. For a moment, it seemed that all was well,
but that moment was short lived.
“The alien vessels have increased to warp 9.4,” Drayge reported. “They’re still gaining on us.”
Christopher clenched his fists.
Less than five minutes in town, and they already have an
enemy. “Increase to warp 9.8,” he said,
still hoping they could outrun their silent adversary.
Drayge immediately complied—and the ship abruptly started to
vibrate. It wasn’t overwhelming, but it
was certainly noticeable. “We’re at
warp 9.7,” Drayge reported a moment later.
“But with the engines in their current state, I don’t know how long
we’ll be able to maintain it.”
Christopher slapped his communicator. “Christopher to Tompkins!”
In engineering, Lucas Tompkins stared intently at the wealth data
flitting across the master control station when his communicator bleeped. “This is Tompkins,” he said, haphazardly
slapping the badge.
“Lucas,” said Captain Christopher, “we need more power
to the engines. We’ve got five evil
baddies on our tail, and I don’t want to know what they’ll do to us if they
catch us.”
A feeling of dread
immediately fell upon the chief engineer.
The transwarp manifold was in shambles; the floor was littered with soot
and debris, about half the computers were dysfunctional—and the Captain needed
more power. “That could be a problem,”
said Tompkins. “We took a hell of a
beating down here. Power is scarce
enough as it is…”
The ship suddenly jolted, and sparks rained down from the ceiling,
pelting Tompkins on the back. He
quickly brushed the sparks aside, and then grabbed his workstation for support
as a secondary shockwave blasted the ship.
But the blast was far stronger than Tompkins had anticipated; he
abruptly lost his grip on the station and went careening into the floor. As his face smashed into the vibrating deck,
Tompkins heard two unpleasant noises—that of several bulkheads crashing to the
floor beside him, and the far less noisy, but equally distressing sound of his
shoulder breaking.
As pain soared through Tompkins’ torso, he attempted to grasp his
throbbing left shoulder. The only thing
stopping him was his apparent lack of consciousness…
“We’re under attack!” Bator shouted over the continued
rumbling. “The lead ships have opened
fire! Shields are down to seventy-four
percent!”
And as if to add insult to injury, Neelar Drayge continued to
dispense the bad news. “We’ve dropped down to warp 5.7!” he shouted.
Christopher clenched the arms of the command chair with his sweaty
hands and turned his attention to Bator.
“Lock phasers on the lead vessel,” he yelled at the top of his lungs,
“and fire at will!”
“Aye, Captain!”
Moments later, a vibrant orange phaser beam streaked across the
grainy viewscreen, striking the lead ship’s pointed bow. A sea of flames quickly engulfed the vessel,
and Christopher smiled pointedly at its demise—but the smile gradually faded as
vessel emerged from the firestorm completely intact, and aglow with tendrils of
flickering azure light.
“They sustained no damage,” Bator promptly announced.
The vessel still loomed on the viewscreen, gracefully channeling
its crackling mess of energy to a swirling ball of electricity on the nose of
the ship. Wisps of azure light already
danced in the space between the Starlight and the alien ship, and it was
only a matter of time before all hell broke loose.
Christopher tightened his grip on the command chair. “I’m beginning to think we shouldn’t have
fired those phasers,” he mused.
“Neelar, see if you can shake them!”
“I’m trying,” said the Bolian, frantically working the helm
controls, “but they seem to anticipate our every move!”
The news was not encouraging, but Christopher wasn’t out of ideas
yet. “Bator,” he said, “load the aft
torpedo bays. Fire a full spread of
transphasic torpedoes. I’m tired of
playing nice with these guys.”
Bator was quick to comply, and moments later, a string of blazing
yellow torpedoes streaked across the viewscreen—and suddenly the fleet of five
small vessels regretted their decision to follow the Starlight so
closely. The two lead ships were
collectively shredded into a smoldering dust cloud, and a third ship so badly
damaged that flames seemed to vent from every centimeter of the hull. It immediately fell back, leaving only two
of the arrow-shaped vessels.
Had Christopher been in their shoes—and he was glad he was not—he
would have made haste to retreat… After
all, three of their companion vessels had been disabled in the blink of an
eye. But much to his surprise, the two
ships continued their pursuit, unfazed by the loss of their comrades. “They’ve got to be crazy!”
Harrison promptly nodded his agreement. “Either that, or they have some sort of death wish.”
Suddenly, the
lead ship darted far ahead of its companion, easily closing whatever distance
existed between the Starlight and itself. With the engines in their damaged state, Christopher knew they
wouldn’t be doing much running—and the vessel was now far too close for them to
risk detonating torpedoes…
“Lieutenant
Drayge,” said Harrison suddenly.
“Prepare to drop out of warp…”
At first,
Christopher thought the idea crazy—they weren’t going to evade these aliens at
impulse—but then he realized what his executive officer was planning, and
smiled at the inspired brilliance. “The
second our friends stroll past us, we’ll just blow them out of the sky…”
“Torpedoes
armed,” Bator crisply announced only seconds later.
Christopher
grinned. It seemed like everyone was on
the same wavelength, operating as one collective mind. There were no debates or arguments—their
objective was clear, and everyone knew what had to be done. These moments weren’t exactly rare on the Starlight,
but they always made the Captain proud.
“Neelar, drop out of warp on my mark!”
He have the
Bolian a moment to prepare, and then began the silent countdown in his mind.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
“Mark!”
The stars on
the viewscreen abruptly came to a screeching halt. Moments later, a blur of light eclipsed the shimmering
starfield—and Lieutenant Bator opened fire.
A second volley of bright yellow torpedoes swiftly hurtled across the
viewscreen in pursuit of the blurry wraith, but before they could reach their
target, the Starlight jolted, the lights flickered, and the viewscreen
went dead.
“Only one of
the vessels passed us,” Erin Keller suddenly reported. “The second one is attempting to grapple our
hull!”
Christopher
pulled in a lungful of acrid air, and proceeded to clutch the arms of his
command chair. Things were about to get
rough. “Shield status?”
“Shields have
failed,” said Bator. “I am trying to
restore them, but—”
An insidious
groan abruptly silenced the Phobian,