Troop Module Aloga-Five
Pergamum Nebula
“Bottom of the third. Jericho walks. Leary grounds to Connolly, force-out at second, six-four. Santis HBP, Leary to second. Tamerlin grounds to Connolly, double play, six-four-three—”
Spock looked up from his meditations. Across from him stood Connolly, uncovered blond head bowed turtle-like in his battlesuit. The man was mumbling. Spock spoke loudly to be heard over the troop module’s thrusters. “I do not understand you.” His instinct, to add “Lieutenant,” had been slapped out of both of them by Baladon’s sadistic attempts at puppetry. “I thought I heard you say your own name.”
Connolly looked up from his near trance, seeming to notice the rumbling of the transport for the first time. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Sorry—it probably didn’t make a lot of sense.”
“It did not.”
“I’m going over the last ball game I played back home,” Connolly said, looking about in the darkness at the cramped surroundings of Green Squad’s drop bay. “It was our league final.”
“You remember a sporting event with such clarity?”
“We keep written records—a lot of them. I know it’s kind of arcane.”
“The same is done in chess.”
“Then it is only important that you understand it,” Spock said. In truth, there had been many times in his life in which he had done the same thing. Reciting to himself the precepts of logic had helped him to organize his thoughts when they were the most chaotic.
Across from them, Ghalka was mouthing something too: aloga, vesht, dezik, krall, urdoh. The Boundless alphabet, or rather the part of it they had been told they needed to care about. Five call signs were all that had been drilled into their heads. They had been taught those, and how to move and fire their weapons—but little else.
It was baffling. “I didn’t think we’d be out here so fast,” Connolly said, looking about in agitation. “I thought I’d seen this story before—that they’d keep us in training longer, kind of like Starfleet.”
“The Boundless have no time to spare for that,” Baladon said, stopping for a sip of nutrient from his onboard feeder tube. “It’s all recruiting and dying with these people.”
“But at least they could show us what we’re up against!”
“That would be a mistake.” Baladon pointed downward to the drop chute doors. “You think you’re worried now? If you knew what you were heading toward, you’d be soiling yourself faster than your composting systems could handle!”
Spock looked to Malce. He was in the corner, staring into nothing. The Antaran hadn’t spoken in days, earning him Baladon’s wrath. The best news had been that despite Baladon’s threats, the Boundless did not believe in physically harming their recruits. Battlesuit operators were a precious resource, worth risk—significant risk, in the case of the Enterprise abductions. Baladon might batter them mentally and have them smash at one another’s armor, but that was the limit.
It did not make it any more pleasant.
Spock moved his hands to his temples. The reflex was far from helpful to his concentration, given the size of his covered fingers. They had not seen Kormagan again after that day on the training floor; Spock understood from Baladon that her domain extended to all five carriers, as well as the processing vessel and multiple support ships. He had spotted other members of Enterprise’s crew, dispersed among the other squads aboard the processing ship. He had counted seventeen, himself included—but had no idea whether he had encountered everyone. They seemed healthy, if just as bewildered as Spock’s companions were.
The problem was, he had not seen most of them in some time. After a few days in training, Spock and his group had been marched—there was not a more accurate way to describe a process in which one’s legs walked against one’s will—aboard Combat Module Carrier 539-Aloga, reputed to be Kormagan’s flagship. Their squad had been assigned to Aloga-Five, the modular troop transport they were in now. Nowhere in between had Spock seen any of the other Enterprise captives, save Connolly and Ghalka. Baladon, who was always willing to answer when he thought his words could cause unhappiness, had suggested they could be on Kormagan’s other ships or possibly traded to some other wave.
If the latter, Spock wondered, how would we ever find them?
Navigational thrusters sent a horrid creak through the ship. Another black-shouldered warrior entered—this one with an identifier light shining ruby-red. The unmasked being’s hairy orange face marked him as belonging to one of the more common species within the Boundless—and his armor markings made him the red squad subaltern. He greeted Baladon. “How’s command treating you, Greensub?”
“We’ll see after today, Redsub.” Baladon cast a leering eye toward his teammates. “My curse in life is to bear the failings of others.”
“You’ll live.”
“I’m surprised that you’re alive. I thought you did a recon this morning.”
“We did. I lost one on the way out. One of your kind.”
“I know who you mean,” Baladon said. “That was Garnam. A consummate oaf. It always surprised me he lived past birth.”
“Yeah, no great loss.”
“So the Rengru know we are coming.”
“They always know we’re coming.” The subaltern looked to Baladon’s troops. “Listen, I’ve got a slot to fill.”
“You want one of these?” Baladon laughed. “Rookies, all. They haven’t seen a thing.”
“A body’s better than nothing. What’ll you take?”
Baladon’s eyes focused on one of the weapons affixed to Redsub’s armor. “I like that assault cannon.”
“The Ripper? For one of them? You’re crazy.”
“And you’re a trooper short—and we’re about to go in.”
The subaltern listened to the straining of the transport and growled. “All right. But I get to pick.”
“Not a chance, my friend—not when the store is about to close.” Baladon looked over to his squad. “You there. Andorian!”
Ghalka looked up, broken from her fretful haze. “What’s happening?”
Spock fixed his eyes on Baladon. “What do you intend?”
“It’s a deal,” Baladon said. He spoke into the mic before him. “Transfer personnel, Aloga-Five-Green-Five, to same, Red.”
“Accept transfer,” the other subaltern said, and the light on Ghalka’s shoulder assembly went from green to red. Redsub passed the weapon to Baladon. “Have fun.”
Ghalka couldn’t see the light directly given its position on her armor, but she could see its glow—especially when she brought her hand up before her to block it. Her eyes widened as she saw the changed color. “Spock, what’s going on?”
Spock’s eyebrows lowered. “Baladon has traded you. For a gun.”
“For what?” Connolly erupted. “What, no draft pick to be named later?”
“Stow that nonsense,” Baladon said, admiring the weapon. “Or I’ll throw you in for free.”
“Sorry, pal,” the Red Squad subaltern said. “We’re full up. But maybe soon.” He pointed to Ghalka. “Come on, Red-Five.”
Ghalka jerked upward from where she was leaning and lurched into motion. “No!”
Connolly and Spock reached for her, but Baladon barred the way. “Stay put. Either the surveillance tech on the deck above can stop you, or I will.”
The two Starfleet officers could only watch as Ghalka followed her new leader out, objecting all the way. “We will see you again,” Spock said, unsure of how he might make good on the promise. He felt as if he had to say something.
A klaxon sounded—and at the same moment, the transport banked. “That’s us,” Baladon said to his squad, now down to three. “This is Shivane, a Rengru forward depot. Destroy everything that moves. That’s it.” Baladon made purposefully for his drop alcove.
“That’s it?” Connolly gawked as Baladon stepped onto the sealed trapdoor. “We don’t even know what kind of environment we’re going into.”
“We’re in a higher radiation zone, so keep your headgear deployed. Beyond that, these units can handle anything.”
“Except whatever hit that guy that Ghalka’s replacing!”
Spock spoke firmly. “Baladon, I will not attack someone who is not my enemy.”
“Then I’ll have two openings to fill,” Baladon said, disgusted. “The Rengru do not care about your morals, Vulcan. Now button up and get into position before I have to walk you there myself!” Baladon’s angry face disappeared behind his reactivated headgear.
Spock watched Malce walk, hypnotized, into the Green-3 drop chute alcove. Connolly looked at Spock, rattled. “Tell me you’ve thought of something. A way out of this—anything.”
“I have not. Perhaps we will find a way below.” With that, Spock stepped onto the plating assigned to him.
Hearing the rumbling grow thunderous outside, Connolly reluctantly went to his own spot. “Are we going to be okay?”
Spock did not respond. “Insufficient information” felt unsatisfactory, even to him.