Ad Astra :: Star Trek Fanfiction Archive ^{Beam me up, Scotty.}

The atmosphere in the conference room was dour, as was to be expected after such a harrowing discovery. Trujillo had called the meeting to order while she herself struggled to cast out the mental images of those slaughtered aboard Esau.

The conference had been held two hours after the away team’s return. Those officers who had participated in the mission were appearing via video-feed from the isolation laboratory and dormitory structure built in their now depressurized shuttle-bay. They sat in a cramped dining module, still dressed in the tan form-fitting bodysuits worn under their EVA’s.

DeSilva nodded to Glal, Dr. Bennett, Kura-Ka, and Garrett on the viewscreen before turning to address the captain. “Sir, we’re now holding position five-thousand meters from Esau. We’re at yellow alert, our shields are up and weapons systems are on hot-standby. We’ve compiled preliminary reports on the Esau, both from remote scans and the away team’s findings.”

“Very well,” Trujillo intoned. She nodded to DeSilva to continue.

“Scans of the ship indicate no hull breaches, nor were any of the exterior airlocks accessed. However, the away team found no residual transporter signatures onboard, though depending on the type of transporter used, these may have degraded by the time we arrived.”

Trujillo acknowledge the information and then turned the briefing over to Glal and the away team members. They each gave a brief recitation of the information gathered so far from their respective specialties. The captain couldn’t help but notice the haunted thousand-meter stare on Garrett’s face when she wasn’t speaking. Trujillo knew from her own experiences that the young woman’s mind was struggling to place recent events into some kind of contextual framework.

Dr. Bennett offered, “On scene scans and further analysis of the atmospheric samples we brought back with us show no signs of any pathogens, Captain. I think it’s safe to say whatever killed Esau’s crew, it was limited strictly to the macro-level.”

Glal asked Garrett a question and had to repeat himself before she heard him. “Sorry, sir,” she said, obviously drawing herself back from her dark reveries. “Yes, initial analysis did confirm no cellular traces on the arrows, spears, or obsidian residuals recovered from the victims. However, Dr. Bennett and I have determined that the arrowheads and spear-tips were coated in a broad-spectrum neurotoxin, one that appears lethal to a surprising number of humanoid species.”

“Our first real clue,” Jarrod remarked approvingly.

“Correct,” Bennett added. “Thanks to the ensign’s efforts and Starfleet’s comprehensive remote biological-surveys over the past few decades, if this toxin has a biological component, we may be able to trace it to a specific sector or even star system.”

After a few more questions and answers regarding ship’s business, Trujillo asked if anyone had anything else to add. No one had anything further to offer and she brought the meeting to a close. “Given Dr. Bennett and Ensign Garrett’s findings, I’m cancelling the quarantine. We’ll re-pressurize the bay and you can all return to your quarters for some well-deserved rest. Engineering personnel will disassemble and stow the quarantine structure.”

The collective relief on the faces of the away team was evident.

“I’ve alerted Command to what we’ve found here and forwarded our findings so far. Our next move will be determined by what we hear back.”

Glal raised a hand. “Captain?”

“Yes, Commander?”

“The two-hundred and forty bodies of our brothers and sisters remain aboard that ship. They deserve some kind of… interment.”

Trujillo inclined her head towards her XO’s image on the viewer. “I fully understand the feeling, Mister Glal. However, we’re going to have to determine when and if it’s safe to return to Esau for a complete forensic analysis of this… crime scene. Only after that’s been completed can we see to the remains of our comrades.”

Glal dropped his chin in resignation. “Yes, sir.” He understood the reasons behind her answer, but he was not required to like them.

“This meeting is adjourned.”

* * *

Lines of static and momentary image freezing garbled the comm-link with Deep Space 2, grating on Trujillo’s already taut nerves.

Commodore Jiemba, a mocha-skinned Human of Australian Aboriginal descent stared out at her from across several light-years. His salt and pepper hair was wavy, nearly unkempt, and his brown eyes had an intensity that even Trujillo occasionally found unnerving.

“We’ve run all the data you sent us through our tactical simulator and we believe there’s a high probability that whatever attacked Esau may be awaiting a response from you. Either that, or with your shields up you’re not vulner—” the image froze, flickered, and resumed “—ame kind of attack that overwhelmed them.”

“We’d come to much the same conclusion, sir,” she confirmed. Trujillo leaned closer to the screen, consternation evident on her features. “I’d planned to take Esau under tow and return her to DS2 for a full forensic analysis, stem-to-stern. You know I hate to admit it when I’m in over my head, but we lack a dedicated science vessel’s resources in that regard.”

“I’d send you some help, Nandi, but our nearest science asset, Calypso, is more than two weeks away at top speed. You’d be almost back here with her by then. Best you tow her in.”

Trujillo nodded reluctantly. “If you can find who did this, and if it’s deemed actionable by Command, I want first crack at these bastards.”

Jiemba offered a cautious, patient grin. “Who else would we send?” His expression grew more somber, and Trujillo intuited where the discussion was headed. “Unfortunately, you know as well as I that this will almost certainly earn the Abemeda system a warning buoy and a hazard marker on our star-charts. They’ll chalk it up to a disastrous First Contact overreaction by a heretofore unknown and highly xenophobic species.”

“The system’s Class-M planet was charted seventeen years ago by probe and scanned multiple times by Esau since they arrived. No sentient life that we can detect.”

“It could be a yet-to-be-contacted regional power,” Jiemba riposted. “All the better reason to back off and demonstrate that we’re not invaders.”

Trujillo sat back in her chair, suddenly infused with a surge of energy that she had no immediate outlet for. “How long can you give me here before we tow Esau back?”

“Nandi,” Jiemba cautioned, “please, despite the horrible circumstances, don’t make this personal.”

“Three days, Jemmy,” she pressed. “I promise that if we find anything concrete I’ll call it in before taking action. You know I won’t strike without official sanction.”

Now it was his turn to inch closer to the screen. “Here me well, Captain. I have the highest regard for your capabilities and professionalism. That being said, I am ordering you not to place yourself into a situation where Reykjavík provokes an attack by whomever this is. You forget, I know how you think.”

She opened her mouth to reply and he cut her off.

“This is already a tragedy. The only thing that would make this worse is if you start an unnecessary war that someone else is going to have to finish. Sometimes when these things happen, galling as it is, it’s our duty to walk away to prevent something even worse.”

She closed her eyes, dipping her head in an abrupt nod. Her familiarity with those words sat in her chest with the weight of a stone.

“I served under an outstanding captain who taught me that,” Jiemba offered conciliatorily. “You may be familiar with her.”

“Is this where you remind me of my bad luck in serving under my former XO?”

“From where I’m sitting, Captain, you’re very lucky indeed.”

She raised her gaze to meet his, locking eyes through popping static, distortions and across multiple sectors. “Meaning?”

“Three days, Captain, and not a minute more. And Reykjavík doesn’t come off the leash until I let it go. Are we clear?”

“Perfectly clear, Commodore.”

* * *

USS Reykjavík – Captain’s Ready Room

Glal blinked at Trujillo, either truly not comprehending or putting on a very good show. “So you hurt her feelings?” he asked incredulously.

Trujillo scowled at her exec before taking a sip of her tea. “It took a lot of guts for her to confront me. Credit where credit is due.”

“Bah,” he waved a hand dismissively. “She’s brand new, right out of the package. She’ll go where she’s assigned and she’ll like it. The fact that they’re now allowing the top five percent of their class to choose their own assignment is ridiculous. The needs of the service should outweigh personal preference. We’re coddling these kids. Next thing you’ll know we’ll be handing over starship commands to raw cadets!”

In contrast to the tea she’d prepared herself, Trujillo had poured Glal a glass of Deltan brandy from a bottle he’d gifted her on her last birthday. Thus, his tongue was somewhat more free than he’d typically allow. However, Trujillo knew a brace of the liquor would also help the old Tellarite to relax and provide a much needed distraction. The away mission to Esau had affected him deeply, regardless of his willingness to show it.

“You have a unique perspective,” Trujillo observed. “You’re one of only a handful of command officers currently serving who started as an enlisted rating.”

“Too old to quit, too stubborn to die,” Glal said with a smirk.

“What’s your take on all this?” she asked him, waving in the general direction of where Esau now held station.

“A bad business, Captain,” he muttered somberly in reply. “That crew wasn’t just murdered, they were butchered like animals.”

She nodded silently, staring into her cup. Finally, she said, “The commodore gave us three days to solve... whatever the hell this is. After that, answers or no, we tow her back to base.”

Glal’s eyes narrowed and his large nostrils flared. “What’s his definition of ‘solve?’ Does it include excessive numbers of photon torpedoes?”

“He doesn’t want a war,” she explained.

“If you don’t want a war, don’t kill our people,” was Glal’s retort. He drained the glass with a dissatisfied grunt. “They threaten us and we sue for peace. They attack us and we fall back. They slaughter a ship full of peaceful explorers and we slink away with our tails between our legs.”

“We’re soldiers you and I,” Trujillo sounded a confessional note. “We share the same uniform as the explorers, diplomats and Border Dogs, but we’re an altogether different breed. A dying breed.” She cast a faraway look out the ready room viewport, towards the glare of Abemeda’s twin suns. “Our days are numbered, Glal. I can see the direction the wind’s blowing with the Security Council and Starfleet Command. The reason Reykjavík is dispatched all across the Federation is because there’s so few dedicated warships left. We’re a shameful necessity, an uncomfortable reminder that diplomacy doesn’t always work. We simply don’t fit their new narrative.”

Glal reached out to grasp the bottle and pour himself another half-measure of the brandy. He gestured towards Trujillo’s cup with the bottle.

She turned to pour the lukewarm contents of her cup into a nearby potted plant and accepted a shot from the bottle.

Glal raised his glass in salute. “To the warriors. Reviled but necessary. Long may we serve, because gods help them if they rid themselves of us all.”

“To the warriors," she echoed, and they drank.

* * *

DeSilva found Garrett in the science lab on deck four, despite Dr. Bennett having previously ordered the ensign to a minimum seven hours restricted to quarters for mandatory rest.

The lab was an abbreviated affair, nothing like what one would expect aboard a ship dedicated to exploration. The fundamentals were present, however, and that would have to be enough.

The lieutenant turned a wary frown on her younger counterpart. “Mister Garrett, if the XO finds out you’re playing hooky from rack-time, there’ll be hell to pay. Commander Glal doesn’t mess around. And may whatever deities you worship take pity on your soul should word get past Glal to the captain.” DeSilva mock-shivered as she made this pronouncement.

“Couldn’t sleep,” a bleary-eyed Garrett replied, not bothering to look up from where she was studying what looked to be a start chart with various graphic and text overlays.

“Okay, all warnings of your imminent demise aside, what are you looking for?” DeSilva plopped down in a seat next to Garrett.

“Are you familiar with the concept of panspermia?” Garrett asked her.

“Yes,” DeSilva nodded. “Biological material, primarily DNA or its precursors, is ejected into space from an asteroid strike on a life-bearing planet. Said genetic material becomes dormant in absolute zero and floats for eons until the galaxy’s rotation swings other star systems through that same patch of space. The debris carrying the genetic material from the first planet is drawn into the gravity well of other planets where it survives atmospheric entry and introduces those genetic building-blocks to the new host planet.”

Garrett pointed to her screen. “Precisely. We’ve seen it throughout the explored galaxy, with examples far too numerous to count. Now, the doc and I have isolated DNA-markers in the toxin used on the weapons in the Esau attack. It appears to be a plant-based toxin that’s likely been artificially modified to make it more lethal. Taking advantage of Starfleet’s volumes of bio-sampling information from our deep-space probes, I’ve plotted out a map of Class-M worlds in this and neighboring sectors where similar genetic markers to the toxin have been identified.

Garrett called up the graphic, displaying a roughly elongated cone-shaped swath across the nearby sectors. The focal point at the narrow end of the cone lay squarely on the Abemeda system. “The farther away from this system our samples get, the larger the degree of genetic drift, indicating that the original genetic material has become more diluted by the individual evolutionary processes of these planets.”

DeSilva appeared surprised. “So… you’ve confirmed that this toxin may have originated in this system?”

The ensign turned in her chair to face DeSilva. “No, and that’s the problem,” she exclaimed, her voice tinged with frustration. “Our records show no genetic sampling has ever been gathered from the Class-M planet here in the Abemeda system.”

“I thought you said all the Class-M worlds in this region had been sampled?” DeSilva asked.

“Two different probes have transited this system in the past forty years, and both of them launched genomic-sampling drones into the atmosphere of Abemeda II. Neither of those drones ever sent telemetry back to the probes that launched them.”

“Coincidence?” DeSilva posited, not believing it herself.

With a definitive shake of her head, Garrett said, “I don’t trust in coincidences, Lieutenant.”

“Nor do I. Why don’t we send one of our own probes to the second planet?” DeSilva offered.

Garrett pondered that. “We should. Only…”

“What?”

The science officer sat forward, toggling a different display to reveal a course-chart of Esau’s journey through the system.

“Given that Esau hadn’t entered orbit around the second planet yet, my guess would be she was still engaged in in-depth system scans. That’s done in order to chart all asteroid and cometary activity in or near the system. No sense dropping a colony on a planet if a massive asteroid is going to cause an extinction-level event six months later.”

DeSilva studied the young woman. “Okay. Where are you going with this?”

Garrett now seemed infused with a manic sort of energy, no doubt fueled by her exhaustion. “We need to scan Esau and see if she’s missing any probes.” She initiated a sensor sweep of the derelict vessel, eyeing the results. “Damn,” she murmured. “One Class-I probe is missing from their inventory.” She gave DeSilva a wide-eyed look of realization.

“Someone or something down there doesn’t want to be found,” DeSilva speculated, deducing Garrett’s line of reasoning. “They jammed the previous probes’ drone telemetry, but they couldn’t do that with Esau parked just a few AU away in the same system. Esau launched a probe into the planet’s atmosphere, one that the locals couldn’t spoof, and that must have provoked the attack.”

DeSilva tapped her combadge, “DeSilva to the captain…”

* * *