U.S.S. Enterprise
Stardrive Section
Cloud Complex Zedra
“I never expected to hear myself say these words,” Philip Boyce said. “As acting captain, I hereby call this senior staff meeting to order.”
He looked around the little table in the engineers’ briefing room. In another time or place, Boyce might have expected a chuckle or two at that, or at least a smile. Nothing. Not after all that the stardrive section had gone through—and not after what had happened to its commander.
Weeks after the Rengru’s assault, Una was still in the brig—only on the other side of the reactivated force field with the prisoner. She had lain comatose since that horrible day; the Rengru, having impaled the back of her neck with something, had locked its limbs around her like a second set of ribs. It, too, seemed dead, or at least dormant—yet Una somehow remained alive, sustained, at least in part, by her connection with the creature. He was at a loss to explain the mechanism. All he knew for sure was that there was no separating the two without killing the first officer. He didn’t have the equipment or facilities, much less the knowledge.
So she had stayed there, perversely cocooned with her attacker ever since—with the force field in place in case the Rengru rose to maraud the ship. Guards remained posted, and Boyce had gone inside the cell to check on her six times a day.
It had been twelve times a day, but there now seemed less and less reason to go. And he had other worries.
“As chief medical officer, I’m ranked as a commander, but not in the regular chain of command,” Boyce said. “But that entire chain is now either off this ship, or incapacitated. The yeoman reminds me that I had line officer’s training many moons ago, though not the full command course—and with Jallow and the rest of our fine engineers having their hands full keeping the ship running, I get to catch the falling scalpel.”
“I wouldn’t object if I could,” an exhausted Jallow said. “Between the Rengru, the nebula, and the running, we’re held together with duct tape.”
“Always a place for tape in my line of work,” Boyce said.
He let out a deep breath and looked around the table. They’d not had formal meetings because there hadn’t been time, and there were so few to attend. Mann, Pitcairn, and Jallow, all covering for multiple departments—with Colt running between, handling everything else. Boyce usually saw them enough daily to cover everything. This time, however, he had graver topics to discuss—beginning with Colt’s report on her latest shuttle action.
It wasn’t a good one. “Herschel took some bad hits this last go-around,” Colt said. “They’ve adapted to our shuttles-as-defenders tactic.”
“Do the Rengru know we have one of their kind aboard?” Mann asked. “Would they respond?”
“We don’t even know how to tell them.”
Boyce nodded. “There’s been no change whatsoever in the condition of the commander or the Rengru prisoner. Whatever she hoped to learn about communicating stopped right there, weeks ago.”
“Are you still reading brainwave activity?” Colt asked.
“It spikes and goes away. It usually vanishes when we move her for the daily intravenous feeding—almost as if the movement disturbs her concentration, if that makes any sense.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t to me. If I had the full sickbay—”
He stopped. It wounded him that he hadn’t been able to do anything for Una. He and Number One hadn’t always seen eye to eye—Boyce the devil on Pike’s shoulder, her the angel—but he missed her voice and her steady presence.
“Speaking of feeding, what are our stocks down to, Lieutenant Mann?”
“Running low,” she replied. “We never expected to have to feed and water so many for so long, even with the machinery able to assist. We’ve been rationing for months—and looking for ways to go into generation-ship mode, recycling everything.” She eyed Boyce. “I don’t think that’s really an option.”
“And that’s the main reason I called you all here today. I’ve spoken with many aboard, and sounded a lot of people out. It doesn’t look like our situation is tenable to remain in the nebula. We’ve never seen those Boundless ships again, so our science crew is gone—and as much as it pains me to say it, I don’t think we’re going to be able to help Captain Pike, if he’s out there.” Boyce’s chest tensed up after saying the last phrase. Before that moment, he hadn’t allowed that Pike’s survival wasn’t guaranteed.
“We’re leaving,” Colt said, morose.
“If the damn Rengru will let us,” Pitcairn said.
Mann punched her fist. “We’ve never taken it to them—gone for one of the mother ships. They’ve never been made to hurt.”
“That’s because they’ve usually got things crawling all over the hull for us to deal with,” Jallow said. “We’re flat out of DOT-Sixes.”
“And that’s why we’re talking,” Boyce said.
“Unless we’re talking counterattack,” Mann said, “we’re just wasting more time. Forget the DOT-Sixes. We should just go at them!”
Colt shook her head. “Commander Una didn’t want us to go after the mother ships, Trina—not when we didn’t know why they wanted us in the first place.”
“Does it matter now?” Mann asked. “Look what trying to talk to them got her!”
Colt shouted at Mann in response—and Boyce slapped the table. “Hey, hey. Let’s stop this, before I sedate everyone here.” Myself included, he thought.
The speakers calmed down. Pitcairn looked to Boyce. “Is any help from Starfleet possible? We’re overdue.”
Boyce shook his head. “We last heard from Starfleet months ago. It’s only a partial, but it says the Klingon War is still on and that our mission has been extended.” He frowned. “You know what I think of that. As far as I’m concerned, I’m going to do what Chris Pike did nearly a year ago this time—I’m going to assume those orders are outdated and void.”
Colt appealed to him. “But the Rengru—”
“—are going to attack us whatever we do. I think we have to pick the shortest direction with the least nebular garbage in the way, and run like hell. If the Rengru want to fight it out—then, Lieutenant Mann, you’ll get your way. One last foofaraw.”
The table went silent.
“Of course, ‘foofaraw’ is one of those terms we learn in medical school,” he said. But there was no lightening the mood, not now.
“I’ll—uh, get the crew ready,” Pitcairn said, rising. “I think you’ll want to distribute new self-destruct codes.”
Boyce coughed. He hadn’t thought of that. “Yes, once I figure out where they are.”
Colt didn’t look up. “I can help with that.”
“I suppose they’ll go to Mann and yourself, Mister Jallow. And, er, me.”
Colt shook her head. “We’re really going to do this, aren’t we? It’s going to end like this?”
No one answered. Boyce started to stand. “I guess let’s—”
Colt’s communicator chirped.
Snapped out of her funk, she opened it. “Yeoman Colt.”
There was no response.
“Yeoman Colt. Who is this?”
That question was met with a strange sound, almost a gurgling. Mann leaned over. “Where’s the call from?”
Colt looked at the display—and almost dropped the communicator. “It’s Number One’s device!”
Boyce grew enraged. “That’s a sick joke! Some damn guard down there—”
“Hello,” drawled a voice that sounded vaguely like Una’s, only flinty and slowed down.
Colt’s eyes widened. “Commander, is that you?”
“No,” came the response. “I mean—I don’t know what that means.”