U.S.S. Enterprise
Saucer Section
Little Hope
Robinson Crusoe had made two lists.
Pike had never read the novel named for the character, and neither had most of his crew. As days dragged into weeks, however, the 1719 text—part of the complement of multiplanet cultural data preloaded into data slates aboard Enterprise—had seen a twenty-third-century revival. Pike had been too busy to catch even five words of Carlotti’s first reading to the sickbay, but he had listened to the part of the encore where the literary castaway, having dealt with the immediate emergencies, had finally found time to sit down and really think about his situation.
Crusoe had prepared two lists about his predicament: one marked “evil,” the other, “good.” The order was both intentional and important, because the marooned mariner had used the second list to rebut every downbeat item in the first. To the “evil” point that he was without any defense against man or beast, Crusoe noted in the “good” that no enemies were around to be seen—and so on, all in an argument prodding him away from gloom and toward industry.
Pike thought about that as he returned to the room that had initially been dubbed the “listening post.” That name still applied, given that it offered the best chance at an offworld signal reception—but the late popularity of naval stories had many calling it the “crow’s nest,” due to its location and ports looking out on the world of their exile. Whatever the name, Pike had found it was the only place where he felt comfortable dwelling on his fate. Anywhere else, he’d be brooding; being near the receiver gave him the feeling he was doing something. And it had ports, even if they didn’t look out on much. He had come here before sleep every night, mentally adding to his own ever-growing lists of evils and goods:
We have systems that have suffered catastrophic damage.
But the saucer section is intact, and all crewmembers are alive.
We are on a world we cannot draw upon for any sustenance whatsoever.
But we have fresh air aboard, and stores for a crew twice our size.
We are upside down. Were we weightless, the ship’s orientation wouldn’t be an issue at all.
But were we under normal gravity, working would be a nightmare. This world has just enough to make it a mixed bag—as much help as nuisance.
We are without our engineering team, guided only by a man who could not pass a basic Starfleet examination.
But he is one of the most gifted minds of the age, and he is trying to learn.
We are far beyond known space, under skies that might be held by either the Boundless or the Rengru.
But we have seen no indication that anyone knows we are here, so perhaps they have moved on.
I have lost Number One.
He stopped there. He knew the correct answer—that he didn’t know the stardrive section was destroyed, just as earlier in the year he didn’t know that his science team might be alive. It was just that, as the weeks went on, the odds that it survived continued to decline.
Una had been his rock. His serene oracle and Mother Confessor, more aware of his faults than he was—and who often cared more about his future than he did. He needed her now. And not just her. He had the greater number aboard the saucer section, but no one he was close with. He had no Boyce, the father figure and drinking buddy. Even he and Yeoman Colt had shared deep conversations once in a while, though the gap in age and station sometimes left a gulf.
And Spock—well, the connection there had always been different, limited to whatever the science officer wanted it to be. But their conversations had always been rewarding.
Nhan was brash, operating at a higher level of intensity than he did; he couldn’t feel relaxed around her. The same partially went for Raden, although he attributed that more to the Ktarian’s nervous energy. The other new additions—Amin, Nicola—he didn’t know much about at all. And of course, there was Galadjian, who had transformed from a famous celebrity to a vocational renovation project. Around all of them, Pike feared showing any doubts whatsoever. He had to be the captain for them every minute—even when he had no idea what to do.
Vina. Now there was someone a person could talk to. But that wasn’t going to happen either. He was in the real world, in a real place.
A real, awful place.
More vile rain trickled across the port above. By popular acclimation, the crew had named their world of exile Defoe, after Crusoe’s author; that had been arrived at only after it was demonstrated the island in the book had no name. Nhan had suggested “The Foe” was a better pronunciation—and it certainly would have been apt. Stepping outside into the thin atmosphere without an environment suit would be fatal; apart from the chemistry, the temperature could freeze flesh in seconds. And while the methane sea below wasn’t about to ignite with no oxygen present, neither was there anything of use about it.
Above, through the crow’s-nest port, hung a dull gas giant; before it fizzled, it had been Defoe’s sun. The now-moon Defoe hadn’t yet tidally locked to the now-planet, further suggesting the two worlds’ relationship was relatively recent. The pair appeared to orbit a common point with a brown dwarf. Amin had confirmed that it was the same system they’d fled toward in the battle, before the spinning started. Little else in the sky was of interest.
Pike shook his head. They were making so little progress. Power to the interior lights and food slots—that had been the last month’s total accomplishment. Galadjian and an impromptu engineering group were still struggling with the thrusters, although it wasn’t clear what good that would do. As weak as Defoe’s gravity was, it was enough to keep them there. It wasn’t clear thrusters would even break the considerable surface tension of Defoe’s dense ocean.
All that left was the transceiver Nicola had brought up. Pike couldn’t call Starfleet in the way it messaged him; that method was strictly one way, employing powerful arrays. The nebula had allowed for limited local subspace transmissions—but anyone still in the Hellmouth would likely be hostile. He’d tried a weekly transmission to Una on an encrypted Starfleet channel to no avail. Pike doubted his signal left the system.
“I’m sorry,” he said to no one. He looked back down the nearby ladder well leading to the rest of the starship. “I don’t think we’re going to be able to do this anymore.” He was going to have to take a chance—one he wasn’t going to consult anyone about.
He adjusted the transceiver. The Boundless used a variety of subspace and electromagnetic-spectrum wavelengths for their probes, likely chosen for their performance in spite of the region’s conditions. Nothing had been detected on any of these channels since the crash landing; he gambled that meant that the Boundless had left. If Number One lived, maybe she’d be monitoring them, waiting for her chance to return. Perhaps she was already in the Hellmouth, searching, just needing a faint signal to draw her near. He called up the Boundless channel he figured would be least likely used—a basic radio band—and thought of what to say.
His hand hovered over the controls. His attempt would put at risk one of the certain items on his “good” list: a lack of harassment by the Boundless and Rengru. The transceiver was weak, but what if the Boundless picked up the signal? And what of the Rengru? If they warred with the Boundless, wouldn’t they monitor their frequencies too? Did they even do that?
The hell with it. Nobody can hear this thing anyway.
“Enterprise to Enterprise,” Pike said, almost whispering like a criminal. “Come in, Commander Una.”
For a minute, static.
“This is Pike, Number One. Do you read?”
Another minute. Nothing.
This is crazy. What had he just risked? He decided to cut off the unit and pray nobody had heard.
His fingers had barely reached the panel when he heard the words. “I read you, Captain. This is Lieutenant Spock.”