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Chapter Seventeen (cont.)

“Bridge to Captain Dahlgren,” the intercom announced.  “Bridge to Captain Dahlgren."

Matt dragged himself out of a sound sleep, and tapped his comm badge reflexively.  “Go ahead,” he said sluggishly, as he shook his head to clear away the cobwebs of his slumber.

“Captain," Chan’s voice continued over the communicator.  “Lt. Commander Tsien has located the origination point of the transporter beam; we will arrive at the location in two minutes.”

Matt glanced at the time index on the display set beside his bed.  And then he frowned.  “The beam originated from deep space?”

“Yes, Sir.  According to Miss Tsien."

“Very well, Chan.  Take us out of warp and prepare to launch probes—I want a complete survey of both normal and sub-space in the immediate area.  I’ll be on the bridge momentarily.”

Matt slowly sat up, wincing as his leg cramped, and he slowly kneaded the thigh until the muscles relaxed.  He picked up his cane and gingerly stood, and then began to walk towards the door out of his quarters.  He stopped for a moment before a mirror, combing his hair black down, and straightening his uniform; then he continued out into the corridor of Deck Three and into the turbolift set directly across the corridor.

“Bridge,” Matt said as the doors whistled closed.  The turbolift swooshed back along the spine of Republic, and then quickly moved up before the doors opened onto the bridge.  The captain limped out and moved over towards his chair, where Chan was standing up.

“I have the conn.”

“Captain has the conn,” Chan intoned in the ritual reply as the ship slowed to impulse power, and Matt sat down.

“All stop, Miss Montoya,” he ordered.

“All stop, aye, aye, Sir,” the helmsman answered.  “Thrusters at station-keeping.”

“Initiate a full sensor sweep, Miss Tsien—long-, medium-, and short-range arrays, as well as the lateral-sensors.  Mister Roshenko, prepare to launch a probe shell.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the two bridge officers answered.

Matt looked down at this own displays, repeating the data streaming into the Science station.  The transporter trace did abruptly end, just two hundred kilometers dead ahead.  Not dissipate; the trace simply stopped.  This had to be the location from which the beam had been engaged.

But the space immediately around Republic was empty, except for a few stray atoms of hydrogen common to the interstellar deeps of this region.

“Warp signatures, Miss Tsien?”

“None, Captain.  But I am detecting an ionization trail that is very similar to our impulse drives,” the Science Officer frowned.  “But this can’t be correct.  The levels of radiated and ionized gas are far larger than a single ship could produce.”

“How much larger, Miss Tsien?”

“Captain,” she started, and then she shook her head.  “Sir, it would take a thousand ships with the impulse power of Republic to leave a trail this significant.”

“Probes are prepped and ready for launch, Captain,” said Pavel Roshenko.

“Spherical search pattern, Mister Roshenko.  Sensor pallets on active scan, with telemetry back to Republic.  Miss Montoya, rotate the ship as necessary to the launch the probes on proper vectors.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Isabella answered.

“First pattern is launching,” Pavel said, and Republic quivered as four probes streaked away from the forward launchers.

Chan stepped forward besides Matt’s chair and he leaned down.  “The Council will have a cow when they discover how many probes we have deployed on this voyage, Captain Dahlgren.  I really must endeavor to obtain a copy of the hearing when they find out—some of them might even suffer a stroke from the expense.”

The corner of Matt’s mouth twisted slightly into a smile.  “Here’s to Ambassador Mar having the soul of a miser and a weak heart, Chan.”

“We can only hope, Sir.”

“Launching sequence two,” announced Pavel, as Republic shivered a second time.  The turbolift doors opened and Yeoman Sinclair walked in with a large ceramic mug on a tray, along with a small glass of water.  “Since the Captain did not have time for a proper breakfast, perhaps he would like some hot cocoa?”

Matt chuckled and shook his head, but he took the steaming mug.  “Thank you, Nelson.”

“And Doctor Talbot asked that I ensure you take these tablets,” the captain’s self-appointed watchdog said, holding out a small foil package.

Matt took the foil package, popped out two small white tablets and placed them in his mouth, and then took the small glass of water his yeoman held out, washing them down his throat.

“That will be all, Nelson,” Matt said as Chan giggled—the hard-nosed, stern as nails Andorian actually giggled like a giddy school girl.

“Chief Watannabe should have your real breakfast ready in half an hour, Sir.”

“CONTACT!  Probe three, heading 032, mark 004!  Range . . . 40 AU.”

“Hold off on that breakfast, Nelson.  Mister Roshenko, can you identify?”

“She’s not in our warbook, Sir.  And she’s big.”

“How big?”

“Bloody huge, Sir; with more internal volume than a Borg cube.  Visuals are coming through telemetry now.”

“On screen.”

The main viewer blanked and then showed an elongated cylinder, with a cluster of impulse engines at the rear coasting through space.  Irregular protrusions covered the hull, alongside of radiators, sensor arrays, and . . . weapons.  Lots of weapons.

“Overall length 7,274 meters, with a beam and a height of 2,744 meters.  Hull composition is monotanium/duranium alloy, rendering our long-range sensors ineffective.  She is maintaining a sub-light speed of 0.75c; sir, I’m not detecting any signatures consistent with a warp drive and there are no neutrino emissions typical of matter-antimatter reactions.”

Chan jerked, and his antennae shrank slightly.  “No warp drives?  Are you suggesting that is a generation ship, Lieutenant?”

Before Pavel could answer, Amanda spoke up.  “Sir, Science is analyzing the sensor data now—there are over three hundred and fifty thousand separate life forms on board that ship!  Including at least ten thousand humans.”

“Weapons?”

Pavel shook his head.  “She’s covered with weapon stations, Sir.  But they are all lasers and early phase cannons—and she doesn’t have a shield grid.  But I am detecting a structural integrity field of very high strength.”

Matt stared at the ship on screen for a few moments, and then he nodded.  “Mister Malik,” he said as he hit a stud on his chair arm.  “Have you managed to finish that little project I asked you about?”

“Ready to go on-line at your order, Sir,” the Trill responded.

“Then activate the inhibitor.  Chan, set General Quarters throughout the ship and sound Red Alert—Miss Montoya, plot an interception course at Warp 2, drop us to impulse six hundred thousand kilometers away and match course and speed with the alien vessel.  Let’s go meet these people, and find out why they thought it a good idea to abduct our citizens.”

Chapter Seventeen (cont.)

“Course plotted, Captain,” Isabella answered.

“Mister Shrak, record and transmit to Star Fleet Command, send a copy to Admiral Hansen, as well the starships Arrogant, Balao, and Independence.  We have located what appears to be the origination point of the transporter beam involved in the New Columbia abduction.  It is a board a sub-light ship—perhaps a generation ship—that is heavily armed, but only with late-generation lasers and early phase cannons.  The vessel does not match any in Republics databanks and may be an example of a civilization heretofore not contacted by the Federation.  I am initiating First Contact protocols and will investigate the matter further; coordinates and all technical data gathered by sensors on the vessel to this date will be appended to this transmission.  Matthew Dahlgren, commanding officer, USS Republic.”

“Recorded and ready for transmission, Captain Dahlgren,” Chan confirmed.

“Send it, Mister Shrak.  Mister Roshenko,” the captain continued as Chan transmitted the message and Matt kept staring the sensor data collected by the probe.  “Am I wrong or does that vessel mount no missile or torpedo launchers?”

“None that we can detect, Sir.”

Matt frowned and he typed in a few queries into the computer database, and then he looked back up the screen and shook his head.  “Take the torpedo launchers off-line and safe the weapons, Mister Roshenko.”

“Sir?”

“Mister Shrak, presume that you are the commanding officer of that vessel; you encounter Republic and a fight ensues.  Further presume that you have no experience with photon torpedoes and their resonance when targeted by high-energy weapon systems.”

Chan nodded. “With that interlocking array of short-ranged weaponry, Captain Dahlgren, and presuming no prior knowledge of photonic shockwave detonations, I would possibly use my weapons as point-defense to intercept the torpedo before it managed to complete its run.”

“And the resulting damage from multiple photonic shockwaves at say, fifty thousand kilometers?”

“Without shields?  Their structural integrity field would dampen some of the blast, but they would sustain major—perhaps critical—damage to the vessel’s hull, possibly even breaking the spine in half.  Depending, of course, on the level of internal reinforcement of the major structural members.”

“Mister Roshenko, if that scenario were to play out, how many of the New Columbia colonists could we beam aboard ship before fuel fires and internal secondary detonations tore her to pieces?”

“Not many, Sir.”

“No, not many, Mister Roshenko.  And even if we had the time to beam them all aboard we simply do not have sufficient volume aboard this ship for twelve thousand refugees.  Not to mention the three hundred thousand plus other sentient beings that such an event would condemn.”

“Torpedo launchers are now off-line, Captain, and the weapons have been safed.”

“Thank you Mister Roshenko.  Miss Montoya, take us to Warp 2 and intercept that vessel.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Republic smoothly made the transition to faster than light speeds, and she rapidly ate up the distance between her previous position and the lumbering alien.  And then she slowed once more.

“Holding at six hundred thousand kilometers, Captain.”

“Thank you, Miss Montoya.  Mister Shrak, hail the vessel on all sub-space and EM frequencies.”

“Her weapon systems are coming on-line, Captain,” Pavel tersely chimed in from tactical.  “And she has polarized her hull plating.”

Matt rotated his chair and cocked an eyebrow at Chan, who slowly nodded.  “That matches with her observed weaponry, Captain Dahlgren—but will offer little protection against modern phasers.”

“Is she taking evasive action, Miss Biddle?”

“Negative, Sir.  She is continuing on course for New Columbia.”

“At this speed, Miss Biddle, how long until she reaches New Columbia?”

“Seventeen years at her current sub-light velocity, Captain.  Give or take a few months.”

Matt nodded slowly.  “No response to our hails.”

“Captain Dahlgren,” said Chan, “we are being probed by sensors from the vessel.  They are attempting to achieve a transporter lock on our crew.”

“Not precisely the response I had hoped for, Mister Shrak.  Is Mister Malik’s inhibitor functioning?”

“Affirmative, Sir.  Their transporter system cannot lock onto us at this time.”

“Hail them again.”

Chan pressed a few keys and then the shook his head.  “No response.  Correction, they have increased transporter power by a factor of six.”

Matt frowned.  “Mister Roshenko.  Put a full-power one-second burst from the starboard dorsal phaser array across their bow—one kilometer separation.”

“Firing phasers, Captain,” the tactical officer called out.

“They have ceased their attempt to acquire a transporter lock, Captain.  SIR!  They are beaming a warhead into space just outside the inhibitor field off our starboard side!”

“Evasive action, Miss Montoya!  All power to starboard and aft shields!”

“Brace for impact!” Chan broadcast as Republic sprinted away from the warhead.  And then the ship shook as the device exploded.  “Conventional fusion explosive, Captain, highly radioactive, yield in the fifty megaton range,” the executive officer continued in a clipped voice.  “Shields are holding at 96%.”

“More transporter traces, Sir,” Pavel called out, “I am detecting another eight warheads bracketing us!”

“Warp speed, Miss Montoya!”

Republic jumped into warp, leaving behind the thermonuclear flares of eight new suns.

“Take back to impulse power at three million kilometers, Miss Montoya.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Matt rubbed his dry lips, and only now noticed that he had flung his mug of cocoa across the deck.  “Damage reports?”

“There is minor radiation contamination to the secondary hull and nacelles—no physical damage.”

“Is the probe still in sensor range, Mister Roshenko?”

“Yes, sir—and we must be beyond that vessel’s own sensor reach.  The probe is showing she is standing down her weapon systems.”

Matt nodded.  “Miss Tsien, Mister Roshenko, Mister Shrak.  I want a full tactical and science analysis of that vessel from what our own sensors showed during that encounter.  Mister Roshenko, I want four stealth probes alongside that ship, giving us real-time telemetry via sub-space.  Make it fast, people; department head briefing in two hours—and I want answers by then.”

The Captain stood and he braced his weight on his cane.  “Miss Biddle, you have the conn—any detection of a transporter beam and you are authorized to evade or go to warp on your own initiative—don’t wait for my order.  I’ll be in my ready room.”

"Aye, aye, Sir," a chorus of voices answered as Matt limped off.  The last thing he heard before the doors slid shut behind him was Grace Biddle's voice barking her own orders.  "Crewman Molinari, get that spill cleaned up; Mister Malik, initiate decomtamination procedures."

Chapter Eighteen

Two Marines escorted the shackled Antaran into the small conference room aboard White Cloud.  Sean remained seated as they brought her in and sat her down at the opposite end of the table, scrolling through page after page of information recovered from her shuttlecraft.

Finally, he looked up and glared at the furious woman.  “You have been busy—Feringil Delon.”

Inderi jerked slightly, and her lips quavered.  “Who?  My name is Inderi . . .”

“We’ve cracked your computer encryptions, Madam Delon, and DNA doesn’t lie.  You are Feringil Delon, also known as Jaspari, also known as Melan Tour, also known as Lindsey Krait, also known as Inderi.  There are warrants for your arrest on four dozen separate charges on four of these identities . . . and there will soon be one issued for your role in what occurred at New Columbia.”

Sean closed the monitor screen and he met the eyes of the smuggler and criminal facing him.  “There is no escape this time, Madame Delon; you will spend the rest of your natural life span on a penal colony undergoing rehabilitation.  Unless . . .”

Inderi’s eyes grew wide and she looked up at that last word.  “Unless?” she croaked.

“Unless you tell us everything about the people who abducted our colonists from New Columbia.”

The Antaran swallowed.  “I want a full and complete pardon for my past crimes.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, Inderi.  What I will do is this:  if your information is truthful and it helps us resolve this crisis, I will let you and your shuttle go.  We are not in Federation space, after all.  You can continue to live your life on the fringe of civilization, or you can you go to Hell.  It makes no difference to me.  But that offer is contingent on retrieving the colonists safe and sound, Inderi.”

“You need my information—and your offer is not good enough to pay for it.”

Sean sat back and he snorted.  “USS Republic has already found your allies, Inderi; the sub-light generation ship that beamed away the colonists.  You value your information too highly, ignoring the fact that it has a very real and very finite duration of viability.  Three more starships are on their way, and White Cloud will be joining them.  With or without you, Inderi, we will retrieve our colonists.  Frankly, my dear, I hope that you reject my offer because the universe will benefit from your incarceration.”

Inderi swallowed.  “You are bluffing.  You haven’t encountered . . . them.”

Sean nodded and he pressed a stud, and the technical details recovered by Republic flashed into existence onto the wall mounted view screen.  Inderi blanched, and her head fell.

“I don’t bluff, Madame Delon.  My offer is good for the next sixty seconds.  What is your choice?”

***********************************************

“Did she talk, skipper?” asked Gerald as Sean exited the turbolift unto the bridge.

“She sang like a songbird, Mister Bowen.  Helm, set course to rendezvous with the Republic; make your speed Warp 9.9.”

But Sean’s face was tense and pursed.  Gerald moved close and he leaned down to the older engineer.  “Was it that bad, skipper?” he softly asked.

“Worse.  Much worse, Mister Bowen.  They don’t just want the planet; no these aliens needed the human beings of New Columbia to restore genetic diversity that their own DNA has lost over thousands of years of inbreeding.  They plan on disassembling our colonists on the molecular level to develop a treatment for their genetic disorders.  They aren’t hostages—they are medicinal supplies.  Expendable medicinal supplies.  And this ship isn't alone; she's only the first.”

“Warp drives on-line, skipper,” the helmsman said.

“Engage.”

An interesting enemy for the Federation to contend.

Well, DM, I thank you.  Next post should be up tomorrow.

Master Arminas

Chapter Eighteen (cont.)

“Mister Philips, welcome back,” Matt said as he stood to welcome the Starfleet engineer back aboard ship.  “Enjoying your first command?”

Sean grimaced.  “She’s not exactly the sort of ship I was expecting, Captain.  Still, I think Intelligence will want to go over her in detail—seems the Orions have been busy at acquiring proprietary technology again.”

“No doubt, Commander,” Matt answered as he led Sean out of the transporter room and to the closest turbo-lift.  “Deck 6.”

The engineer shook his head.  “Deck 6?  Not the briefing room?”

“No, Doctor Talbot has some questions for your EMH; Mister Malik has set up a telemetry link to White Cloud so that he can be activated in Holodeck 1.  I thought it would be best to get your impressions at the same time.”

“Ah, Captain, you should know . . .” Sean began as the turbolift came to a halt and the doors opened.  “The EMH is rather annoyed.”

“Yes, the Mk I tended to come across as rather abrasive, don’t worry about that, Commander.”

“No, sir.  I mean annoyed at me.”

Matt stopped and he turned around to look at Sean.  “Oh?”

“We had to adjust his appearance to fool Inderi.  He didn’t like that.”

Now the Captain frowned.  “I don’t imagine that he did.  No one cares to have their body altered.  And I would imagine that he told you that.”

“Yes, sir.  Repeatedly.”

Matt tapped his cane against the deck, and then he turned and continued limping towards the Holodeck.  The doors slid aside at his approach and he, followed by Sean, stepped within.  Rather than the black plating with yellow girds of an inactive Holodeck, Dr. Talbot already had the basic program running—a duplicate of the Chief Medical Officer’s office.

“Doctor.”

“Captain, Commander.”

“Doctor.”

Matt tapped his comm badge.  “Mister Malik, we are ready when you are.”

“Activating the system,” the chief engineer said over the link.

The holographic doctor suddenly materialized.  “Please state the nature of the med . . . this is different,” he finished in a surprised voice.  And then he sighed and held up his massive pudgy hands.  “And I am still an obese Orion crime lord.”

Matt frowned, and he turned to glare at Sean.  “You didn’t restore his original programming?”

“We haven’t exactly had the time, Sir.  I was planning . . .”

“Dahlgren to Crewman Zapata.”

“Zapata here.”

“Mister Zapata, how long exactly will it take you to restore the Emergency Medical Hologram to its original parameters—while preserving its accumulated memory?”

“An hour, perhaps less.”

“You have thirty minutes, Mister Zapata,” Matt said curtly and then he directed his gaze at Sean once again.  “You could not spare an hour, Mister Philips?”

“Captain Dahlgren, it’s only a hologram—not something that has feelings.”

“Mister Philips, the Emergency Medical Hologram is an extremely advanced piece of technology.  I have read the classified reports Star Fleet Command has intermittently received from Voyager, and I can tell you that this hologram is far more than its creators ever intended for it to be.  He is a member of the ship’s crew—a Star Fleet officer that deserves to be treated with respect and common decency.”

Matt turned to the program.  “You have my apologies, Doctor, for the . . . inconveniences you have suffered.”

The hologram swallowed.  “Apologies accepted, Captain Dahlgren.  Am I no longer aboard the White Cloud?”

“Welcome aboard the USS Republic, Doctor,” the corner of Matt’s mouth twisted and then he smiled a crooked smile.  “There are many doctors aboard my ship—what is your name?”

“Name?  I wasn’t given one.”

“We will correct that then, Doctor . . . who?  Let me think,” Matt said as he rubbed his sore leg.

“You are not get . . .” Quincy began, at the same time as the hologram asked “Is there an actual medi . . .” and then both stopped and looked at each other.

“He’s my patient,” Quincy growled.

“I was only asking, Doctor . . .”

“Talbot.  Quincy Talbot, chief medical officer.”

“Ah, yes.  I read your paper on neurosurgical restoration of Trill symbiotic nervous tissue resulting from improperly balanced transporter fields.  Might we discuss that in detail some time, Doctor Talbot?”

“Of course.”

Matt grinned.  “How does Dr. Robert Woolsey grab you, Doctor?”

The hologram frowned.  “I am not familiar with a historical medical figure by that name.”

“He delivered my three daughters, and was my family physician until his retirement last year.”

“Ah,” the hologram said, before he looked down at the deck.  “Woolsey . . . Robert Woolsey.  Rob.  Robby.  Bob.  Bobby.  No.  Robert.  Robert Woolsey, medical hologram, at your service, Captain Dahlgren.”

Sean shook his head.  “Captain we don’t have time for this.”

“Mister Philips.  We have ample time to greet this ship’s newest crew member.”

Quincy jerked up.  “Now wait just a damn minute . . .”

“Stow it Quincy.  You were telling me just last week how much Republic needs a third board-certified surgeon in case we get into combat again.  Star Fleet won’t assign a third surgeon; not aboard a ship this size—and you know it.  Doctor Woolsey here, he is available and he is now your third-shift on-call trauma specialist.”

“The ship isn’t set up to handle an EMH!” Sean blurted out.  And Matt turned back to him and glared.

“Then it is a really good thing we still have your engineers.  I want sickbay outfitted with holoprojectors, in addition to all of the medical labs and department offices, main engineering, the bridge, and the brig.  And once that installation is complete, I want his program transferred aboard.  You are capable of undertaking this task, are you not, Mister Philips?”

“I am,” the engineer replied through a clenched jaw.

“Good.  However,” the captain continued as he turned back to the hologram.  “It may be a while before we can do this, Doctor Woolsey.  Right now, Doctor Talbot needs to ask you some questions about Inderi and anything she may have revealed concerning the Nephkyrie.  And aboard this ship Doctor, you will be treated properly.”

“Thank you, Captain.  I would honored to serve under a real Star Fleet officer, one who is a gentleman as well.  I can’t recall her mentioning the . . . Nephkyrie by name.  What exactly are the Nephkyrie?”

“An alien race—the one that abducted the New Columbia colonists.  Doctor Talbot will fill in all of the details.”

“Ah.  She did ask me to run an analysis on a tissue sample collected in a tricorder—a sample that does not match any known species.”

“Is it still in the memory banks of the White Cloud?” Quincy asked sharply.

“Yes.  Of course.”

Matt smiled as the older doctor inhaled.  “In that case, Doctors, I’ll let you both get to work.  Commander Philips, Mister Shrak has a detailed briefing for you.  That second-hand Klingon cloak might just come in handy.”