Star Trek: That Which Divides (24 page)

Damage to the impulse engines, sensors, and life support systems had necessitated landing on the planetoid in order to effect repairs, anyway. Not for the first time, Vathrael was thankful she commanded a scout vessel capable of
such action rather than one of the empire’s larger and more prestigious warships. Otherwise, she and her crew might already be dead.

“You’re certain there’s nothing you can do about the warp drive?” she asked.

Mylas shook his head. “The ship will require dry-dock facilities and perhaps a complete system overhaul, which means that we will need assistance to return home.”

“A not inconsequential obstacle, given our current predicament.” Thanks to the
Nevathu
’s repaired cloaking device, the ship was able to maintain stealth. This allowed Vathrael some measure of relief while her crew continued the other repair efforts in a bid to return to space and, if they were fortunate, issue a call for aid. While that was a desirable goal, Vathrael knew that their paramount objective was to avoid revealing their presence to the
Enterprise
, which might still be outside the rift, monitoring the field and its effects. In addition to the potential danger it represented on its own, the Federation starship could also summon help, and there was a distinct possibility that any reinforcements it called would arrive here ahead of any Romulan vessels. Her standing order, identical to those given to every ship of the empire, was to destroy her ship in order to avoid capture once all other methods of evasion were exhausted. Vathrael would carry out that directive without hesitation, but also with a great deal of regret. Her obvious failure to the praetor would of course weigh on her conscience, but her last thoughts would be how she had betrayed the crew who had given her their trust and loyalty, and who would do so until the end.

We are not there just yet
, she reminded herself.

“So long as the impulse engines are operational,” she
said, “we can address the other considerations later, if necessary.” She looked about the terrain, which stretched to the horizon in all directions. Taking a deep breath, she savored the gentle, enticing aromas cast off from nearby vegetation. Based on what her sensor officer had told her, this region of the planetoid had recently emerged from its short, mild winter, and the plant life here was currently in the stages of its seasonal bloom. “I think I speak for the entire crew when I say that regardless of how pleasant this little planet would appear to be, we do not want to spend the next few
fvheisn
here.” How much time remained before the energy field surrounding this world became inaccessible again? Though Vathrael knew the situation would be temporary, if long-term, and as inviting as the surroundings might be, she had no desire to stay here, hiding from the indigenous population until rescue arrived or another opportunity for escape presented itself.

Mylas nodded. “I understand, Commander. I have no desire to spend what little life I might have left wandering about this place. I prefer to enjoy my retirement in the small house I recently purchased in the mountains north of Dartha—close enough to the city that I am not completely isolated from the best civilization has to offer, and yet far enough away that no one will bother me.”

Laughing at the image that evoked, Vathrael shook her head. “Retirement? You? Considering how long I’ve known you, I would think you to be immortal.”

“Only in spirit, Commander,” the engineer replied, smiling.

Vathrael released a small sigh as she shook her head. “Mylas, you’ve been my closest friend since I was an untested centurion. You’ve more than earned my undying
devotion and trust. You’re allowed to address me by my name, at least when we’re alone.”

“I will take that under advisement, Commander,” Mylas said, chuckling again.

Any protest Vathrael might have made was silenced by the sound of new footsteps on the ramp. She turned to see her executive officer, Subcommander Sirad, and her sensor officer, Centurion Betria, descending from the ship. Like Mylas, both officers looked tired and dirty from extended efforts as they contributed to the ongoing repair activities. The look on Sirad’s face was enough to tell her that something was troubling him.

“Commander,” Sirad said, offering a formal nod before extending a similar greeting to Mylas. “Our sensors have detected the presence two Starfleet transport craft.”

Surprised at this, Vathrael eyed Betria. “The sensors are functioning?”

The centurion nodded. “Partially, Commander, but enough to show us what may be the source of the attack on our vessel. It’s some distance from here, but still within the range of our transporter system.”

“So, the humans are conducting their own investigation?” Vathrael asked.

Sirad nodded. “It’s what they do, Commander. They investigate, discuss, document, and categorize anything and everything to the point of exhaustion.” He paused, shrugging. “In that respect, they are quite formidable.”

“That was difficult for you to admit, yes?” Mylas asked.

His expression remaining fixed, the subcommander replied, “It evokes a pain unequaled in my lifetime.”

Laughing at that, Vathrael allowed the welcome feeling to linger for a moment before her smile faded and she
returned to the matters at hand. “If the Starfleet group finds anything of value, they’ll take samples or scan records of it back to their superiors.” Based on the intelligence reports she had been given upon being given this reconnaissance assignment, she knew that Starfleet and the Federation already had made diplomatic inroads with the Dolysians. That relationship would only continue to grow and strengthen with time, and Starfleet ultimately would benefit from any advanced technology its officers might find while conducting their own survey missions here. During the attack on her ship, she thought the Dolysians themselves may have been responsible, but it was becoming obvious to her that the weapons employed against the
Nevathu
were far beyond the technology of the planetoid’s current inhabitants. The more she considered that aspect of this evolving situation, the more she was coming to realize that another course of action was beginning to take precedence. Learning about this unknown technology and perhaps seizing it for the empire might well end up superseding the
Nevathu
’s need to depart the planetoid and escape the rift before it closed.

“Whatever is here,” Sirad said, echoing Vathrael’s unspoken thoughts, “we must find it first, and deny it to our enemies.”

Mylas nodded. “That would seem to be the prudent course, even though doing so likely will threaten any stealth we might currently enjoy.”

“Then that is the price we will pay for carrying out our duty,” Sirad countered, his voice firm. Then, as though remembering his place, he directed his gaze to Vathrael. “Commander?”

After a moment spent in silence as she contemplated
her options even as her three officers regarded her, Vathrael drew a deep breath. “Yes, it is our duty.” To Betria, she said, “Provide the relevant location information to the transport officer. I will lead a scouting party to the source of the readings, and see what there is to find.” If whatever alien technology she might discover could not be collected and returned to the
Nevathu
, Vathrael knew it would have to be destroyed.

Whether that course of action might require her own death, or those of her crew, was a question that for now would remain unanswered.

That will be dictated by duty, as well
.

The reconstituted scrambled eggs looked real enough, Pavel Chekov conceded as he studied the clump of egglike mass perched atop his eating utensil. The color and texture, so far as he could tell, approximated the real thing. On the other hand, whatever the ship’s food processors had decided this was supposed to be possessed nothing even close to the flavor he tended to associate with eggs.

Just eat, and get it over with
.

“Ours is not to reason why,” Chekov muttered before shoving the eggs into his mouth and doing his best to chew while not allowing the offensive pseudo-food to contact his taste buds. As he swallowed, he grimaced while making a mental note to report the possible food synthesizer malfunction to engineering at his earliest opportunity.

“Ensign, are you all right?”

Only when he heard the question did Chekov realize that his eyes were closed. Opening them, he looked up to see Lieutenant M’Ress standing on the other side of his table. The Caitian communications officer was holding a tray identical to his own, atop which was a plate stacked with some sort of green vegetables he did not recognize. A data slate was tucked under her left arm, and her coat of orange fur gave off a sheen thanks to the recessed lighting
of the officer’s mess, making Chekov wonder if she had recently finished grooming herself.

That’s a stupid thing to think, now, isn’t it?

As he started to stand, M’Ress held out a hand, smiling at him as she indicated for him to remain seated. “At ease, Mister Chekov. I noticed your expression as I was walking past. Are you ill?”

Eyeing his eggs, Chekov replied, “Not yet, but I’ll let you know.”

M’Ress laughed at the joke before gesturing to the empty chair opposite his. “May I join you?”

“By all means.” Chekov gestured toward the chair with his free hand. “Be my guest, Lieutenant.” Now self-conscious, he looked about the officer’s mess, though no one seemed to care that M’Ress was taking a seat at his table, even though there were chairs available at other tables occupied by officers of rank commensurate to hers. Watching her fluid, graceful movements even as she performed the simple act of sitting seemed only to heighten his sudden bout of anxiety. For her part, the lieutenant seemed more preoccupied with her data slate than anything or anyone else. No sooner had she sat down than she pushed her tray to one side, giving herself more room for the tablet.

“I was under the impression that humans usually consumed eggs during their breakfast meal,” M’Ress said, waving toward his plate. “You do not?”

Chekov smiled. “I do, but sometimes I also like eggs with a steak for dinner.” It was a favorite meal of his, going back to his childhood. He, along with his stomach, was happy to know that while the
Enterprise
food processors might not always do well preparing eggs, they made up for it with their steak choices.

The explanation seemed to satisfy M’Ress, who nodded in understanding. Then, rather than picking up one of the utensils on her tray, she opted instead for her data slate’s stylus. After a moment, she said, “I understand that you’ve been busy studying the energy barrier.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Chekov replied, before reaching with his free hand for the chair to his left and holding up his own data slate, along with a trio of computer data cards. “I’m not supposed to go on duty for another hour, but I can’t stop thinking about the field. How it’s generated, why it opens and closes, what the Kalandans had in mind when they created it.” He shook his head. “Even the way it reacts to the presence of other ships; there has to be a reason it does that. Is it defensive? Only the Kalandans can tell us, assuming they left the answer somewhere on that planet.” He sighed. “It’s amazing, and I wish I was with the landing party, having a look at that outpost for myself.”

In truth he had worked a double shift on the bridge, examining the
Enterprise
sensor logs of the energy field as well as the data from the
Huang Zhong
’s distress buoy. The field itself was unlike anything on record, including the immense barrier at the edge of the galaxy, which the
Enterprise
had encountered three times. That it was an artificial creation made it all the more compelling a mystery. It was Chekov’s hope that Mister Spock would see fit to request his assistance with the research currently being conducted on and beneath the surface of the Gralafi planetoid, so that he could see the technology responsible for the field’s generation. Unless and until that opportunity presented itself, Chekov had enough to do just examining the energy field surrounding the planetoid and perhaps learning what might have happened to the
Huang Zhong
as well as the
Romulan vessel. To that end, he had immersed himself in his studies, becoming so preoccupied that Commander Scott had seen fit to order him from the bridge, not to return for duty until he had slept for at least four hours and eaten a decent meal.

“Don’t overextend yourself, Ensign,” M’Ress said, her tone quite soothing, Chekov decided. “We may be here a while, and if that’s true, you’ll likely get your chance to see the outpost. In the meantime, you would do well to conserve your energy. You never know when you’ll need it.” Her eyes lingered on him a moment before she returned her attention to her data slate.

Nodding, Chekov replied, “Your words to Mister Spock’s ears. Until then, I have plenty to keep me busy.” He scooped another bite of pseudo-eggs from his plate, and as he did so he noted M’Ress watching him, her eyes narrowing as though curious or perhaps confused.

“Is that a pew?” she asked.

Pausing as he was in the process of taking his next bite, Chekov glanced to his right hand, feeling a sudden rush of blood to his face as he realized for the first time what he was using to eat. Had he actually carried the thing from his quarters? Only then did he notice that the cutlery that he had taken from the dispenser near the food synthesizers remained untouched on his tray.

Talk about preoccupied.

Chekov hoped his forced chuckle covered the sound of his clearing his throat as he held up his “personal eating utensil,” or “PEU,” as it was known in Starfleet vernacular. Essentially a spoon with the end of its scoop molded to feature a trio of fork tines, the implement was a standard equipment item issued to cadets at Starfleet Academy.
Though generally used only during training missions on Earth or off-planet locations where even rudimentary dining facilities often were not provided, the “pew” was a vital component of a cadet’s field gear. “I’ve had it since the Academy,” he said, smiling at the memories the utensil evoked. “During a training mission on Andor, a fellow cadet broke three fingers on her right hand. We were in the middle of a ground combat exercise and no medical equipment was nearby, so I used this as a field-expedient splint.”