Captain's Glory

12

VOSTOK ACADEMY, MERCURY

STARDATE 58563.6

Picard staggered from the transporter pad. It had been an unusually rough beam-in. He felt disoriented.

A Starfleet medical technician was there to take his arm, steady him.

“Sir-do you know where you are?” the medic asked. He had raised his voice, as if he expected Picard to be unable to hear him.

Picard was puzzled by the question-not because he didn’t know the answer, but by the fact it was asked at all.

“Sir?” the medic prompted again.

Picard saw another medic a few meters away in the undersized transport chamber, aiming a medical tricorder in his direction. There was no one else present, not even a transporter technician.

“Vostok Academy,” Picard answered. The venerable outpost, deep beneath the surface of Mercury, was one of the oldest planetary research facilities in Earth’s home system.

“Do you know what stardate it is?”

Irritated now, Picard yanked his arm from the medic’s grip. “Fifty-eight five sixty-three. What’s this about?” He glanced back at the pad. It was still glowing, as if about to accept another beam-in. “Is something wrong with the transporter?”

“No, sir. But you were in the buffer for about ten minutes, and that can sometimes– “

“What?”

“Identity confirmation,” the medic beside Picard said. He looked to the medic with the tricorder. “Match?”

The second medic nodded. Only then did Picard notice that she carried a phaser at her side. The first medic had one, too.

“What is going on here?” Picard demanded.

The first medic ushered Picard toward a closed door. “You’re scheduled for a briefing, sir. That should answer all your questions.”

Then the doors opened and Picard felt himself propelled forward by a firm hand in the small of his back. The light gravity of Mercury, only a third of Earth’s, made him stumble again until his reflexes adjusted.

The corridor outside the transporter chamber was empty. It smelled damp and musty to Picard. The white walls were dingy, the light from the overhead panels decidedly blue. Combined with the absence of artificial gravity, the whole effect was one of age and neglect. Picard decided this must be part of the original outpost, which he thought had been abandoned as new extensions had been constructed.

A voice came from an unseen speaker in the wall, not his combadge.

“Captain Picard, please follow the corridor to your left.”

“Who are you?” Picard snapped. “Where’s Admiral Janeway?” The admiral had beamed down with Picard after the Enterprise had established standard orbit of the planet. He had expected that they’d arrive together.

“The admiral has already been processed. Please follow the corridor.”

“Processed?”

“Please, Captain, you’re delaying the next arrival.”

Picard suppressed his questions and temper with difficulty.

Proceeding along the corridor to his left, he stopped before an emergency pressure door. Paint flaked from it in sections, revealing thick coats that had built up one over another, giving the impression of a topographic model. To Picard’s eye, the door appeared to be an antique, dating from a time before forcefields, when atmospheric containment had to be accomplished solely by physical means.

“Stand close to the door, please.”

As Picard did so, he heard mechanical hums and clanks from the corridor ceiling; then a second thick door suddenly dropped down behind him.

His ears popped as pressure equalized in the small volume of air between the two doors.

An emergency airlock. Picard tabled the realization as the wheel-like locking mechanism of the first door rotated noisily. The moment it stopped, he felt a vibration in the floor, and the door slid open to reveal more of the corridor, and a Starfleet security team.

The commander of the team was a Betazoid, his large dark eyes unreadable as he approached. Behind him, waiting impassively, each with a hand on the phaser he or she carried, were four large humans, heavily muscled, as if they had been born on high-gravity colony worlds.

“Captain Picard, welcome to Mercury. Your right hand please.”

The Betazoid held a white device that Picard recognized as a modified medical monitor designed to be fastened around a patient’s wrist. It was old technology, not often seen on a starship, where sensors could monitor anyone in sickbay from a distance.

“I’m not ill,” Picard said.

The Betazoid held the monitor out to Picard, open like a manacle. “We know. While you were in the transporter buffer, your entire genetic and cellular structures were thoroughly analyzed. This monitor will enable us to maintain somatic continuity.”

“Somatic continuity?” Picard asked.

The Betazoid held up his right wrist. He wore a monitor.

Picard looked over at the security team. Each of them had a monitor, as well.

The Betazoid’s professional smile faded. “We need to know that the person who emerges from the transporter remains the same person while he’s stationed here.”

Picard held out his right hand.

The Betazoid fastened the monitor around his wrist, then used a welder’s plaser to seal it.

Picard tried to adjust the position of the monitor, twisting it back and forth. Molecularly sealed, it wasn’t coming off, and it felt uncomfortably tight.

“I sense your resistance,” the Betazoid said. He was checking the display on the tricorder he aimed at the monitor. “Understandable. But not, perhaps, the best attitude to have at this time.” His smile was perfunctory, somehow false.

“The monitor’s operational, Captain. If it should ever stop working, or the sensor web reports difficulty in receiving its signal, you’ll hear an announcement. At that time, you will stop whatever you’re doing and remain in place and in view of the nearest visual sensor until a security detail can reach you.”

Picard made a last attempt to penetrate the officiousness of the Betazoid. “Has there been an incident that these procedures protect us against?”

“You’ll be briefed,” the Betazoid said.

The statement was obviously intended as a dismissal.

The pressure door behind Picard slid shut.

“We have other arrivees to process,” the Betazoid said. He gestured down the corridor, past the security team. “You want the blue door. Thank you, Captain.”

Picard made the decision not to protest his treatment. Until he knew what had happened to cause Starfleet to establish this level of security, it was clear that questioning the procedure would be useless.

The blue door was several hundred meters along the curving corridor. Picard passed only two other people on the walk there, both civilians, both wearing medical monitors like his. Neither spoke to him, acknowledged him only with a nod.

A hand-lettered sign had been placed on the blue door. All it said was

BRIEFING.

As Picard looked for a control panel, the door opened to reveal a large balcony of slatted metal looking into a cavern large enough to hold the entire Federation Council chamber. The stale, moist air that rushed out told him why the corridor smelled as it did.

The balcony was bolted to the cavern wall as if it were part of some long-abandoned mining operation. It was thick with worn paint, like the pressure doors in the corridor, and starkly lit by what appeared to be temporary emergency lights clamped to the railing every few meters. They marked the way to a wide staircase, also of slatted metal, leading down to the cavern’s floor, supported by improbably thin posts.

Looking ahead, Picard could see several islands of light in the cavern, created by pole-mounted fixtures. Some areas were stacked with cargo containers. One held a row of portable toilets. Still another appeared to be a field kitchen. Starfleet personnel and civilian workers were busy everywhere, carrying supplies from the containers, assembling portable equipment…. The whole effect was one of hurried preparation, like an army on the run.

The idea of a Starfleet installation having been driven underground, so quickly and so readily, was unsettling.

Picard descended the stairs, grim. One oasis of light contained a black conference table set up on a low platform to provide a level floor. The table was surrounded by enough chairs for about fifty participants, but only twelve people were present, Admiral Janeway among them. Of the other eleven, as Picard came closer, he recognized Fleet Admiral Robur Burnett, currently the number-three officer at Starfleet Command, and two civilian politicians: President Wheeler of Mars, and Jeroba Tak Fong of Alpha Centauri. Councillor Jeroba was New Montana’s representative on the Federation Council and chairman of the Starfleet Oversight Committee.

The others in attendance were a mixture of Fleet personnel and civilians, all human and all unfamiliar to Picard.

They, however, recognized him, and as soon as he stepped from the rough cavern floor onto the platform, everyone turned toward him. As yet, no one addressed him, and Picard followed suit, maintaining silence.

It was Janeway who directed him with a gesture to a chair beside hers. She saw him look at her medical monitor. Each person gathered around the table was wearing one.

Picard decided it was time to speak.

“Are these truly necessary?” he asked as he took his seat beside the admiral.

“Yes,” she answered quietly, but didn’t elaborate. Again, Picard followed her example and said nothing more.

Then Admiral Burnett stood up, a holographic screen forming behind him, blocking out a looming dark rock wall a dozen meters beyond. On the screen, Picard identified a standard fleet-deployment map of the Alpha and Beta quadrants, though with many fewer assets inscribed on it than usual.

Burnett cleared his throat and began the briefing. He wasted no time with pleasantries. His voice sounded weak, swallowed by the enormity of the cavern, but what he had to say produced enormous impact.

“In the past eleven days, Starfleet has lost approximately two-thirds of its warp-capable fleet.”

Picard was stunned, and so, he could see, were most of the others at the table. Janeway, surprisingly, was not.

“Fewer than five percent of the affected vessels have been outright destroyed. In most cases, safety systems performed as designed and warp cores were ejected.”

A civilian blurted out a question. “Is every loss related to a warp-core malfunction?”

“Every loss,” Burnett confirmed. “Of our remaining warp-capable assets– ” He gestured to Picard. “– such as the Enterprise, most of them are equipped with older-model cores or are on station with orders not to go to warp.”

Another civilian interjected with alarm. “Admiral, are these ‘malfunctions’ a direct attack on the Federation?”

Burnett glanced at Councillor Jeroba as if they had already had that conversation. “Not just on the Federation. Though the Klingon Empire hasn’t officially commented on any unusual shipping losses, unofficially our contacts with the Imperial Fleet suggest they have lost more than half their warp vessels. Communications intercepts from the Romulan Star Empire indicate their losses are much less, but still significant. Apparently, their larger vessels that use nanoscale singularities to enable warp have not been affected. But their civilian fleet has been almost totally wiped out.

“Even more disquieting is that Deep Space Nine reports no warp vessel, scheduled or otherwise, has emerged from the Bajoran wormhole in the past eight days. That strongly suggests that the malfunctions are occurring in the Gamma Quadrant, as well.”

Picard had to interrupt at that. He raised his hand to signal Burnett, disturbed again by the unfamiliar weight of the monitor on his wrist.

“Jean-Luc,” the fleet admiral said.

“Admiral, if the malfunctions are indeed occurring throughout the galaxy, then why are we certain they’re the result of a deliberate attack and not some new natural phenomenon?”

Burnett held up his own medical monitor. It gleamed in the harsh light surrounding the table. “Why these, you mean.”

Picard waited for an answer.

“In a number of cases,” Burnett said, “the malfunctions appear to be associated with acts of infiltration.”

That was a new revelation to Picard and most of the others. A buzz of reactions grew around the table.

“Can you characterize the nature of the infiltration?” Picard asked.

Again, Burnett held up his monitor. “Shapeshifters. Far more sophisticated than the Founders, or, for that matter, any other polymorphic species known to us. Hence the need to bring all of you here by transporter, so your identities could be confirmed by comparison with earlier transporter records. More serious is that these shapeshifters, in the guise of specific Starfleet personnel, have been sighted on dozens of affected vessels, spread across thousands of light-years, all within days of each other.

“And most serious,” Burnett concluded, “after the time and effort these beings have expended in infiltrating our vessels and installations, they appear to be all too willing to die in the malfunctions they create.”

There the fleet admiral paused as several heated conversations began.

For all the questions that Picard wanted answered, one was critical. He had little doubt that all other answers would flow from it.

“Admiral,” Picard said, cutting through the background clamor of other speakers, “why have we been brought here?”

Burnett grimaced, and Picard did not need the abilities of a Betazoid to sense the weight of defeat the admiral felt.

“For the moment,” Burnett said, “all of us at this table are Starfleet Command.”

The room fell silent.

“What about Admiral Mueller?” Picard asked in bewilderment. Eric Mueller was the commander-in-chief of Starfleet, only a few months into his posting.

“He’s presumed lost. The Erebus was en route from Vulcan six days ago. The warp core breached so suddenly, it couldn’t be ejected. No survivors.”

Picard understood that he was no longer in the company of strangers. Everyone present was now his colleague and he theirs. The U.S.S. Erebus was a Sovereign-class starship, as was the Enterprise. Admiral Mueller’s fate, and the fate of all those on his ship, could also have been the fate of Picard and his crew-if not for his encounter with Shinzon and the subsequent installation of an old-model warp core.

“Are we to presume other personnel losses have brought us to this?” Picard asked.

“A combination of factors,” Burnett said tersely. “Some members of Command are known to have perished. Others are known to be stranded in interstellar space, awaiting transport by warp-capable rescue vessels. So many, though, that it could take months for all of them to be returned to Mercury. Others are simply missing. Admiral Janeway will brief us on that aspect of what we’re facing, later.”

Picard had no idea what Janeway could have to say about missing personnel, but one other detail of what Burnett had just said needed clarification.

“Why Mercury?”

The admiral gestured to a gaunt, bearded man at his right. Like Burnett and most of the others present, he appeared to have gone several days without sleep. “I’ll leave that to Doctor Muirhead.”

Though they had never met, Picard recognized the engineer’s name. He was the chief administrator of Starfleet’s Propulsion Technologies Division.

Muirhead stood as Burnett sat. He was equally plain-spoken.

“We don’t know what’s causing the rash of core malfunctions. In the beginning, only certain models were affected. However, we do have detailed engineering logs from a handful of incidents and they appear to indicate that in almost all cases the cores failed during power-up.”

“What about the other cases?” someone at the table called out. Picard couldn’t see who the questioner was.

“Location also appears to play a part in the malfunctions,” Muirhead answered. “Vessels, even those with susceptible cores, that went to warp deep within the gravity well of a star or other massive object were not affected. This suggests to us that whatever technique is being used to trigger warp-core failures involves the distortion of ordinary space-time. Where a particular volume of space-time is already distorted by a strong gravity source, the technique is not effective. This could also account for why the larger Romulan vessels, powered as they are by miniature black holes, have not experienced the same failure rate.”

Now Picard understood why Starfleet Command had been relocated to Mercury. That planet was so close to Earth’s sun that even five hundred years ago, in the infancy of multiphysics, the sun’s relativistic effects on Mercury’s orbit had been noted by astronomers.

“However,” Muirhead continued, “what little protection a gravity well provides is likely going to be temporary.” He picked up a small padd from the table, input some commands, and the holographic screen changed its display to show a three-dimensional graph. The primary values being charted on it progressed to zero over time.

“As you see, the characteristics of the affected warp cores are following a diminishing energy curve. Our most powerful designs were affected first, beginning eleven days ago with the devastating breach at the Cochrane Institute. Since that time, however, less powerful cores are being affected. If the pattern continues, as shown on this chart, within ten more days, Cochrane-based warp travel will be… impossible.”

Shocked silence greeted that revelation.

Muirhead sat. Burnett folded his hands on the table and the weariness he felt, and his despair, were evident in his heavy tone. “In other words, what we are faced with is the end of interstellar trade, interstellar traffic, interstellar culture…”

Burnett looked around the table, as if making sure everyone understood exactly what their position was.

“In ten days, the United Federation of Planets will cease to exist.”