Chapter One
USS Starlight
Stardate 74989.5
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 knowingly added.
“And cookies,” Alan confirmed. “Blue ones.”
The mere mention of the said 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 a 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 simulation 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 of the 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 images scrolled across the computer screen. “Computer, display time index 9-2-4”.”
For a moment, the mess of incoherent images
flickered by so quickly that Christopher couldn’t even begin to comprehend
them. And much to his chagrin, that
trend continued even after the computer’s frantic search of the data
halted at time index 9-2-4. It was
little more than a grainy starfield, a few purple streaks, and a fuzzy red
blob. “I didn’t know our probes were
abstract artists…”
“They’re not,” said Tompkins.
He tapped a few commands into the computer,
and then alluded to the red blob as it came into marginally clearer focus. There seemed to be some sort of structure
built around the blob, but the quality of the image was still incredibly poor,
and Christopher could not be certain.
“Whatever that thing is, I have the distinct feeling that it should not
be there.”
Tompkins nodded agreeably. “That bad boy isn’t on any of our
star charts, anyway.”
“Do you know what it is?” Christopher
inquired. He didn’t expect much in the
way of an answer, but curiosity demanded the question be asked.
Naturally, Tompkins provided a hesitant
shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine,”
he said.
“We cannot detect the entity on long-range
sensors,” Harrison quietly interjected.
“I have conferred with one of our nearby listening posts; they are also
unable to detect the entity. That is a
curious finding, to say the least.”
“Hell,” said Tompkins, “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… And suddenly, a mysterious entity appears amidst the chaos, but
its very existence cannot be proven without venturing into the Zhargosia
Sector. “It is almost like
bait,” Christopher mumbled. “Is there anything
to disprove the validity of the image?
Could it have been planted in the data stream?”
“We have found nothing thus far to disprove
the image,” Harrison stated. “However,
we are only in the preliminary stages of our investigation. Commander Reinbold
and Lieutenant Johnson are presently attempting to fully restore the
image. That will undoubtedly shed some
light on the situation, however, due to the data stream’s extreme level of
degradation, their task may take some time.”
“How much time?” asked Christopher.
“Too much,” Harrison replied. “At least two days.”
Christopher expelled a weary sigh. They stood very near the threshold of the
twenty-fifth century, and even with their most advanced technologies, something
as simple as restoring lost data could take days when the proper doses of chaos
were introduced. “I am often at a loss
when it comes to making decisions about funny-looking red blobs. Thankfully, we’ve not encountered too many
of them over the years… Demand for them
must be down in evil organizations across the quadrant. That’s the only explanation. In fact—”
“Captain,” Harrison politely
interjected. “Not that this discourse
on the aforementioned blobs is not fascinating, but it would be appreciated if
you would… get to the point.”
“Yes,” said Christopher, suddenly realizing
that he had indeed gone off on a bit of a tangent. “Of course.” He
straightened his uniform as he brought his mind back to business, and then
quickly made some informed decisions based upon the available data. Or lack thereof. “Until we have more information on this entity, we can’t really
do too much about it. And until we have
some tactical backup, I’m not too keen about entering the Zhargosia
Sector. Thus, I am going to contact
Admiral Grayson; everyone else should have their attention focused on that
blob. If this is the beginning
of some sort of invasion, I want to be ready for it…”
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 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 cells 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.”
Though he had no direct evidence to support
his theory, Xi'Yor was certain he spoke the truth. Over the past several months, their vessel had apparently
ventured a great distance; without sensors, it was impossible to tell, but
Xi'Yor estimated at least a thousand light years of travel. Not once was the vessel attacked, or even
remotely threatened.
Security protocols were also lacking. Xi'Yor was familiar with at least five
guards on the vessel. They visited
daily to deliver food and drink, and wore little in the way of armaments. These daily visits were apparently random,
but the fact that they happened at all made Xi'Yor wretch; it was almost as
pathetic as traveling aboard a Federation starship. “Evidently, I was mistaken when I deemed the Ghaib worthy of an
alliance with the Elorg.”
Xi'Yor could hear Talyere’s discontented
sigh even before he finished speaking.
“Did you really believe Melas would rally to your cause?” he inquired.
The Overseer cast Talyere an ominous
gaze. “I was well aware of the odds,”
he conceded. “But I was expecting the
Ghaib—Tracker Melas in particular—to be more receptive. The Elorg have—”
“—nothing to offer,” Talyere
interjected. He obviously 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… The Ghaib will never
ally themselves 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. “It is their
loss,” he proclaimed. “They have passed
on an opportunity for power, and have consequentially made themselves and enemy
of the Elorg Bloc.”
Talyere failed miserably in dissembling his
lack of enthusiasm for that piece of information. “Xi'Yor,” he said softly, “the Ghaib are powerful beyond our
comprehension. Conversely, the Elorg
are presently having difficulties destroying a space barge. You must realize your grandiose claims are
meaningless to them…”
Xi'Yor rose partly from his chair. “Then what do you suggest?” he
demanded through clenched teeth.
For a moment, Talyere sat in silent
contemplation of the question before enlightenment suddenly struck. “Escape,” he replied, as if the answer to
the inquiry were clear as day.
“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…”