U.S.S. Enterprise
Saucer Section
Defoe
“I do not violate any code of Starfleet conduct by saying that this idea stinks,” Pike said from the command chair. “And regardless of what may happen in our future careers, know that we have provided the service with jokes for centuries.”
With the thrusters ailing from their earlier escapade, another solution had been required. Defoe’s gravity was weak enough that the saucer didn’t have to launch vertically, like a rocket, but the impulse engines did need to be angled downward for a launch to be effective.
Thus, the plan. Strictly speaking, they did not intend, as Nhan had bluntly put it, “to ride a flaming fart to orbit.” Defoe’s methane sea would not, could not, burn without something to react with. But it could be vaporized, made to expand by an energy source no one aboard the saucer section had considered before Galadjian: the ship’s phaser banks.
Pike looked over to the engineer. “It’s your boat, Doctor.”
“The sea is fine today, Captain,” the engineer said. “Let us discover if this boat can fly. Mister Raden, impulse drive at one percent.”
A mild jolt from behind.
“We’re moving—barely,” Raden said. On the main viewer, the placid chilly sea responded with the lightest of wave reactions.
“Commander Nhan, as helm boosts the impulse power, fire the ventral phaser banks in a dispersal spray downward and forward, increasing in intensity according to the guidance I have provided.”
“Happy to,” Nhan said, glancing at her instructions. “I’ve wanted to shoot at something for months. This crappy moon is an excellent choice.”
Pike had seen Galadjian’s notes to Nhan and Raden; he had characteristically boiled down a mass of imposing equations to something simple for wider consumption. “Mister Raden,” Galadjian said, “you may increase power according to the program.”
Another boost from the impulse drive—and Nhan fired the phasers. For several seconds, Pike noticed nothing.
“Five percent,” Raden called out. “Surface is getting choppy.”
“The phasers are shaping a channel of aerosolized methane beneath and ahead of us,” Galadjian said. “Can you confirm, Ensign Dietrich?”
“It’s there,” she called from the science station. “And expanding, just as predicted.”
“Excellent. Continue with the procedure.”
As the saucer section pushed harder across the surface, Pike saw the static line of Defoe’s horizon cloud up and disappear. Then he felt himself tip back as the vessel’s bow gently angled upward.
“It’s working, Doctor,” Raden said. “We’re starting to break surface tension. Pitch elevation, three degrees.”
“We’re surfing the gas. How’d you ever think of this?” Pike asked.
“We use phaser-powered analytical nebulizers in modern plasma spectroscopy,” Galadjian said. “Here, we create our own nebula to return to another!”
“Constant fire continuing,” Nhan said.
“Impulse ten percent, pitch six degrees.”
The saucer section shook as it surged across the dense, endless ocean. Pike had been aboard a speedboat once where the bow had risen into the air; he’d felt then as if the craft was about to launch into space. With a ramp of expanding methane to angle the impulse engine downward, the saucer section had a chance of doing exactly that.
Whatever happens, please don’t let us flip over again!
“Impulse fifteen percent, pitch . . .” Raden looked back. “Captain, we’ve reached our escape angle!”
Pike looked to Galadjian, who winked and pointed his finger in the air. It was time. “Raden, go!”
Raden increased power—and Pike grabbed his armrests. The saucer section wobbled, but righted as it went gradually skyward. “Hold on, people,” he said—and not just because of the thrust: he could feel the Defoe’s meager gravity lessening.
And then . . . space. And cheers.
“Fusion reactor is performing correctly,” Galadjian said. “Gravity plating coming online. It will be at full power in thirty seconds.” That was another fix that had taken months, completed just in time. “I hope you have all been doing your calisthenics.”
“You did it,” Pike said, speaking to the entire crew. Then he looked to Galadjian. “You did it.”
The doctor nodded—and leaned back in his chair, contemplating not the space outside, but his terminal.
“Thrusters seem to be cooperating a little better now that we’re out of the soup,” Raden said. “I think the manifolds fouled a little during the flip.”
“I like being able to turn around.” Pike looked at the main viewer. “Anybody see us leave?”
Nhan shook her head. “Doesn’t look like it. It’s not much of a vacation spot.”
Pike already had somewhere to go. “Set course for Skon’s World, full impulse. Let’s get Spock!”
Skon’s World
The cryovolcano erupted again, spewing its mix of ammonia, water, and methane in a colossal plume. For nearly half a year, it had been Spock’s destination—and as his resources ran low, he had feared he would not reach it. It was the last spectacle he was ever going to see, the last moment when nature would break from its quiet majesty to speak loudly and firmly, declaring the presence of the physical laws of the universe in a symphony of science.
It had also been where, during his time in space, he had last seen the red light of his waking dream. It had been only a spark by then, heading toward the mountainous region and then disappearing. By the time Spock had landed, the planet’s rotation had carried the volcano to the opposite side of the globe, necessitating his walk.
He had not decided how close he would want to get to the mount; his armor decided for him, its armatures finally giving out less than a kilometer from the active cryomagma field. He had been losing heat for weeks, and his oxygen reprocessor was fouled to the point where the air in the battlesuit was little better than the thin, frigid haze that clung to the surface of Skon’s World.
Spock had always known what he would do next—and even debilitated by his ordeal, he did it.
With the governor not functioning, Spock found it easy to extract himself from the battlesuit. Like petals opening on a flower, the armor blossomed outward, hinged modules peeling away from him one at a time. A lobe of armor plate here, a stowed weapon there. He clambered out and fell on the snow, wheezing. His muscles carried their own weight for the first time in months; were it not for the weak gravity of Skon’s World, he might never have moved again.
But there was something else to do.
During his first conversation with Kormagan on the mobile processing center, Spock had learned that the clothing he was wearing on Susquatane was stowed amid his gear. Disregarding the vile condition of his Boundless-provided tracksuit, he quickly put it on.
Not for warmth; regardless of his attire, he would shortly freeze on Skon’s World, if he didn’t asphyxiate first. He had another reason. He was gratified to see his tricorder, but not surprised. Kormagan had said that, since it was not a weapon, it had been left with his personal effects. It was all he needed.
The battlesuit stood nearby, as if at attention. Spock stood too—rockily, uneasily, fighting for breath as he turned to face the volcano.
He would not meet death as a Boundless soldier, cast away. It would be as a Starfleet science officer, doing his job to the end.
He turned the tricorder on and started taking readings.