Chapter Text
Medical log, Stardate 3741.4. The Constellation has been underway for three weeks now, on a mission with an objective so super-secret that Commodore Decker still refuses to permit any communication to or from Starfleet. The ship's Starlife system is in good working order, as evidenced by its readings indicating abnormal heart rates, fatigue, nervousness and diminished executive functioning. I have asked Commodore Decker to call upon sick bay to report my findings to him and hopefully get a better idea of what his intentions are.
Decker entered Jol's office in the sickbay just as the doctor came out of the research lab, pulling on a blue jacket over his short-sleeved tunic. "You wanted to see me, Doctor?" Decker inquired.
"Yes, sir, with regard to the Starlife system," Jol said. He pointed at the display screen affixed to the bulkhead behind his desk. "It's definitely functioning as intended - it's detecting a shipwide elevation in confusion, stress, some cases of indecision and irritability. I don't know how much longer you intend this side trip to last, but I do know the crew is having an adverse reaction to it."
"Well, nobody should join Starfleet to begin with if all they're expecting is a pleasure cruise. But I think Mr. Edgerton knows better than either of us how much longer this 'side trip', as you so irreverently put it, should take."
"Just the same, sir, there was a bit of a stir the other day when you relieved Lieutenant Dorian from duty. If this does go on very much longer, you'll start observing decreased efficiency, emotional outbursts - if it reaches a higher extreme, even seditious behavior."
"Got a treatment in mind?"
"Well, for the time being, I've appointed Dr. E'Mero as the ship's psychotherapist. Anyone experiencing particularly high tension is encouraged to request a session with him, irrespective of their rank or position. But that's only a temporary measure. We've got to get this job over with sooner than later."
And return to our regularly scheduled surveying of dangerous planets was about to alight from Decker's tongue before Jol continued: "And as for you yourself, sir...."
"What about me myself? Did you forget the 'I'?"
"Not at all, sir." Jol pointed at one of the data streams nearest the top of the screen, standing out in yellow print with a long two-toned line. "You're showing one of the highest cortisol levels on the entire ship. This mission is taking its toll on you far more heavily than anyone else aboard."
"Do I need to reread my command orders for you? It comes with the territory."
"No, sir, but I am concerned - "
"Dr. Jol, when all unusually hazardous substances have been unloaded from my ship and we're ready to resume our prearranged course, I do solemnly swear that we'll divert directly to the nearest M-class planet that resembles a nature preserve, and there we'll all take a nice long shore leave. But in the meantime - "
Decker was about to reiterate his responsibility for the stress level when the intercom whistled. He crossed to the monitor screen on Jol's desk and answered the hail.
"Commodore, please report to the bridge," T'Prea said. "Commander Masada needs you to see something vitally important."
"I'll be right there." Decker shut the intercom off and looked back up at Jol. "This isn't our first difficult mission, and it won't be the last. Think of it as a chance to conduct some research into space psychology. If Casey Suslowicz was still with me, he'd jump at the chance."
"I don't doubt it, sir," Jol said with half a smile. "I just hope you're right about this not being our last mission."
Decker arrived on the bridge to find Masada standing beside the command chair. "More engine trouble from the Lexington?" he surmised.
"No, sir," Masada said, motioning at the main viewer. "Take a look at this."
The viewer was filled to all four corners with rubble, dust, and space debris. The Constellation's main deflector batted most of the flotsam out of the ship's path, but the relief helmsman still had to dodge and weave around the larger chunks to avert hull damage.
"An asteroid belt?" Decker's face contorted with cynicism, as if to ask That's the so-called vitally important something you called me up here for?
"Not just any asteroid belt, sir," Masada said. "This is all that's left of the L-372 system."
Decker stared at him, befuddled. "What do you mean, this is all that's left?"
"The entire system's been blown to bits. Eight planets, twenty-odd moons, approximately fifteen billion inhabitants - that's what we're looking at."
"My God," Decker muttered, leaning heavily on the back of his chair. "Do you have any idea at all what caused this?"
"Nothing specific. I'm reading traces of anti-protons on most of the debris, but there's no known weapon that could cause such a calamity. And ruling out a supernova, I can't think of any force of nature that could have done this, either."
"Fifteen billion people." Decker shook his head in dismayed disbelief.
"It gets worse," Masada said, stepping up to the science station. "I've been running some long-range scans. The L-370 system looks to have suffered the same fate, and so has Gallus and two or three other systems in our vicinity. But not a one of them has experienced a solar cataclysm of any sort."
There was a long silence. Decker watched the rocks and debris and asteroids slide past all corners of the viewer, trying to visualize the planets they had once been. The class, the topography, the ecosystems and populations....how heartbroken Maria would have been to witness such total devastation. To say nothing of the fifteen billion people who had suddenly woken up one morning to find the day of their doom had come.
Where had he been in the meantime? He should have been able to forestall whatever happened here.
"Ms. Marlowe, what's our ETA at M-427?" he asked finally.
"If we resume our base course, one hundred and thirty-eight hours, present speed," Marlowe answered.
"Increase speed to warp seven," Decker ordered. "I want this magnotritium off my ship before we try to find out what other planet-smashing forces are present."
"Warp seven, aye, sir," the helmsman acknowledged.
As the Constellation shuddered, hummed, and broke into a space-bending sprint, Decker saw Veltanoa turning toward him in his peripheral vision. "Commodore...."
"Relax and have a pickle, Veltanoa," Decker headed him off. "I know warp seven is pushing the envelope, but she can handle it. It'll only take eleven hours now to get where we're going instead of six days."
"That isn't really what concerns me, sir. The power necessary to maintain this speed will affect the integrity of the containment field we've raised around the hangar deck. Won't be more than a few hours before it starts to falter."
"If all goes well, we won't need it for much longer by that time. Just to be on the safe side, check the stasis fields of those containers again and make sure they aren't falling off on us."
"Shall we alert Starfleet about the destroyed planets?" Masada asked.
Decker gave him a sidelong glance and then turned his gaze back on the viewer. He sighed, lowered his head for a moment, and half turned. "How about it, T'Prea, how long will it take to get a hold of Starfleet?"
"You have not yet rescinded your order for subspace silence, sir," T'Prea said. "However, if you were to do so, extreme subspace interference is present in this area. I have been able to receive no transmissions for several hours now, either from the closest starbase or from any other nearby starship."
Decker folded his arms with a muttered curse and faced Masada. "Well, I guess that takes care of that. We may as well get this over with and make our way back here afterward, see if it hasn't cleared up at all. Maintain our base course. And in the meantime, why don't you run some more long-range scans and try to establish a pattern of any kind to these destroyed solar systems."
"Aye, sir," Masada muttered. After Decker had left the bridge, he glanced at T'Prea. "I can think of a few other patterns worth establishing around here."
"Of planetary devastation?" T'Prea queried.
"Of human behavior. Mark my words, T'Prea, Decker's leading us into a whole new circle of hell here."
"I'm afraid I lack a frame of reference, Commander, since Vulcan does not have a 'hell'."
"Well, we'd better keep an eye on him, or you're damn sure going to find one."
For the remainder of his watch, Masada alternated between scanning the destroyed solar systems and ranging ahead to detect any space weather effects the Constellation might have to dodge. As far as he could tell, the devastation reached almost beyond maximum sensor range: planetless stars surrounded by space rubble extended all the way to the outermost boundaries of the galaxy. The swath of destruction, he noted, seemed to be taking a disturbing direction toward the Rigel sector - but it had altered direction often enough that he couldn't be certain.
He'd have to keep an eye on it. If there was an imminent threat to Rigel, that might be the only thing that would change Decker's mind about the communications blackout.
As he scanned the interstellar weather ahead, he found Dorian's cryptic signal ringing in his head again. What had his clandestine co-operative been trying to tell him with that strange little turn of phrase? For some reason it echoed louder still since Decker hadn't even tried to signal Starfleet, interference or no interference, even to report the destruction of an entire solar system. How could a man be so single-minded....and what if Dorian had figured out something about Decker that Masada hadn't....and tried to signal him without making it obvious....but what the hell was "echo some echo golf" supposed to mean?
After Edgerton relieved him on watch, Masada took a roundabout stroll through the senior officers' section toward his quarters. He could feel the deck shuddering underfoot as the warp drive strained to hold a factor of seven. He ended up on the same path he and Dorian had walked from the briefing room to the officers' lounge after meeting Decker for the first time, and suddenly remembered the conversation they'd had.
And that was when it hit him.
Quebec. Uniform. Echo. Echo. Golf.
That was it. Masada nearly ran the rest of the way to his quarters and punched the computer interface switch.
"Computer," he said breathlessly.
"Working."
"Search historical database for following name: Philip Francis Queeg."
"Working." The computer briefly rattled its processor and responded in its usual mechanical monotone: "No such name exists in historical data bank."
"Okay," Masada muttered. He thought a moment. Decker was developing a taste for classical Earth literature - but Dorian's was already well honed.
"Cross-reference that name with Earth literary data bank," he ordered the computer.
"Working. One result. Philip Francis Queeg. Fictional character. Main character of historical novel 'The Caine Mutiny', copyright nineteen fifty-one by American novelist Herman Wouk."
"Stop," Masada said. "Display background information on the character and the role he plays in said novel." He switched on the monitor screen and rested his chin on his hand.
Philip Francis Queeg
Philip Francis Queeg is a fictional character appearing in the historical novel "The Caine Mutiny", (c) 1951 by American novelist Herman Wouk (1915-2019). Queeg is portrayed as the commanding officer of the U.S.S. Caine, a destroyer-minesweeper assigned to the Pacific theater of operations for the United States Navy during Earth's Second World War. Queeg is suspected by several of his officers of suffering from severe neurosis and paranoia. Partway through the novel, Queeg places the Caine and its crew at grave risk by sailing it through a massive tropical cyclone, during which his executive officer, Lieutenant Stephen Maryk, forcibly relieves him of command out of concern for the safety of the ship. The remainder of the novel focuses on the court-martial of Lieutenant Maryk over whether or not he committed mutiny by relieving Queeg of command, if he was so authorized under applicable United States Navy regulations.
Masada's pulse quickened, and he felt a sweat about eighty degrees colder than that which he'd felt pouring down his head aboard the Nevorian freighter. The further he read, the sharper Dorian's comparison of Decker to Queeg came into focus. It was when he came to the part about Queeg fidgeting with steel ball bearings during stressful moments that Masada had to fight the temptation to switch off the monitor and call Seppala.
He didn't even read the part about the outcome of the court-martial. He turned around and grabbed a large, hidebound book, titled STARFLEET CHARTER, from the shelf. By now he could open the book almost to the exact page that was so familiar to him, whenever he needed to refresh his memory about what his mission really was.
Art. 14, Sec. 31
This Article provides for a temporary Agency to be established by the Chief of Starfleet Security for purposes of investigation, observation, intelligence gathering, cultural research, or any other purpose such as may be deemed necessary by the CSS for the protection of United Earth interests and affairs. Such an Agency shall, at the sole discretion of the CSS, be permitted the use of extraordinary measures to be taken in times of extreme threat.
Well, this particular agency to which he and Dorian belonged was anything but temporary - it had been around ever since first contact with the Klingons. But at this point, the threat was not only extreme, it was compound, and not only in the chemical sense: whatever had destroyed those solar systems couldn't be far, and it could very easily be heading for a dense population center of the Federation, like the Rigel sector or Eridani.
For almost the next two hours Masada sat there, mulling over what the Constellation was flying away from and into: how ironic it seemed that Section 31, as he knew it now, had been created in response to the Klingon threat, and a scrape with Klingon forces had set the ship on this insane errand: and what extraordinary measures would have to be taken to neutralize this particular extreme threat. And yet, that brought his mind to focus on one overarching question: exactly which threat was the most extreme? The Constellation's cargo, its commanding officer, or whatever was out there blasting entire solar systems to bits? At first glance it was a no-brainer, but Decker's single-minded fixation on destroying the cargo could expose other systems to ruin if the Constellation was out of position to intercede.
He was more convinced than ever of what he'd told Dorian, that it would be best to follow through with Decker's intentions for the time being. But with Dorian now in the brig, he was dangerously close to exposure. At the very least, Edgerton should know what turns this mission was liable to take. And the two of them would have to keep a close eye on Decker in tandem, lest the commodore's perseverance, driven by grief and guilt, prove to be disastrous for the Constellation and all hands aboard.
Decker was sure he'd never gone this long without making a log entry, even before he took command of the Constellation. But no one must know - absolutely no one. Dorian's duplicitous behavior had underlined the chance he couldn't afford to take. Flying in close to M-427 - an F-5 main-sequence star almost half-again the mass of Earth's own sun - was dicey enough. They were now only a few hours from the star itself, but Veltanoa's warning had proved to be prophetic: after eight hours of blatting along at warp 7, they could place more stock in the stasis fields of the magnotritium containers than they could in the containment field around the hangar deck.
At least this system's planets were all still in one piece. Yet those smashed solar systems reminded Decker of Trefayne's warning of a great destructive force coming to Federation space. How annoyingly inconvenient of the old Organian not to be able to tell them the exact nature of the force: the more Decker thought it over, the more certain he was that such a power was the only power that could have caused such apocalyptic devastation.
The Constellation was now shaking, almost incessantly, its bulkhead plates rattling and its dilithium crystals vibrating in their chambers. The containment field around the hangar deck weakened by the hour. Deck hands had to pull extra duty to prevent the containers from undulating across the hangar deck and colliding. As they came within an hour of M-427, Decker moved from the command chair to the scanning station at the side of the bridge and sat there, finger on his lip, sorting out the factors. They could reduce speed when they got closer, extend the life of the containment field, and prevent the ship from shaking apart at the junctions, but he'd already learned his lesson from Dimidium and the Leonis. They could closely orbit the star to jettison the cargo, but....
"Toshiro," he said thoughtfully, half-turning toward Masada. "You have any theories on how closely we can fly by that star without getting sucked into a time distortion?"
"Been working on that, sir," Masada said. "The trick is making a close enough orbit so the cargo gets drawn into the star and we don't. We'll have to use the tractor beam as a repulsor to give it a little added inertia."
"So what do you figure, six, eight million kilometers?"
"I'd say closer than that. And there's another thing, Commodore. I think we'll be needing to release each container one at a time. If we shove them all in there at once, we could destabilize the star's core and then we'd have a nova on our hands."
"Well, there's always a catch, isn't there?" Decker muttered.
"I'm afraid so, sir. We'll have to maintain a speed of at least warp two to avoid being roasted alive."
Decker sighed and scratched his jaw. Jim Kirk always used to say risk was part of the game if you wanted to sit in that chair. "Game" was an interesting way of looking at it, though....
He stood up and turned toward the well. "Red alert," he ordered. "Veltanoa, lay to the hangar deck. Double down the shuttlecraft, take safety precautions for the deck hands so they don't go out of the hangar along with the containers." Veltanoa acknowledged and made haste to the turbolift as Decker returned to the command chair. "Tara, I want to assume an elliptical orbit around that star," he said to Marlowe. "Get me no closer than five million kilometers. We'll drop a container, haul off, cool down, and then take another run at it."
"Aye, aye, sir," Marlowe nodded, and bent over her console.
Decker turned as Samuels, Zhour, and Jost Hasselmann, the assistant engineering officer, rushed out of the turbolift to take their stations amidst the blaring howl of the red alert siren. "Just in time, gents," he remarked. "Zhour, bring your deflectors up to full intensity and modulate them for solar radiation. Danny, I hope you got your rest. You've got a lot of speed and course changes ahead of you."
"Sounds like it'll be just like Ouray Pass back home," Samuels said with a confident smile. He plopped down at the helm, but his smile - and possibly also his confidence - vanished as he looked at Marlowe's navigation board. "Wait a minute, we're going in that close to an F-five main sequence?" he said in disbelief.
"Sure it's Ouray Pass and not Toltec Gorge?" Marlowe said with a wry smile.
"Well, at least Toltec Gorge is a little further away from the sun," Samuels said apprehensively.
"Reduce speed to warp three," Decker said. "Just keep us out of a gravity flux and keep us the hell out of the photosphere. Tara?"
Marlowe sat back and turned. "Our orbit will take us to a periapsis of five million kilometers and an apoapsis of one hundred million," she said. "Should give the hull enough time to cool off between passes."
"Very well. Let's do this. Put me on speakers, T'Prea."
"Aye, sir." T'Prea snapped open the intercraft channel and turned. "All decks standing by."
"Listen up, people. This is Commodore Decker. Take a moment and look at that crest you're wearing on your uniforms. That's the crest of the U.S.S. Constellation. From today on forward, anyone you meet is going to see that crest, and they're going to look at you with awe and respect. They're going to say, 'I'll be damned, I'm standing in the same room breathing the same air as someone from the Constellation, someone who destroyed destruction, someone who kept our Federation safe from a deadly force I can't even imagine!' They'll buy you a drink and ask you to tell them a story about serving on this ship, protecting our space, and forestalling interplanetary war. After today, the number one thousand and seventeen is going to set a numerical standard every damn body in Starfleet will strive to meet, one way or another. You know it like I know it, so now I'm going to shut the hell up and we're going to get this job done. We're going to see to it no Federation planet ever faces the threat of annihilation ever again. All hands, sharp to the action!"
He shut the speaker off and leaned forward in his chair. "All right, John Wayne time. Mr. Samuels, bring us in. T'Prea, keep me open to the hangar deck. Let's do what we came for and unload this holy terror!"