BY CHRIS POURTEAU
“You are putting words in my mouth again,” said the Doctor.
“I only wish I could,” the Captain replied. “Anything would be better than the tripe you insist on spewing.”
The Doctor held his gaze and swirled the drink in his hand.
The Captain’s eyes descended to the dark liquid flashing amber in the glass. Another affectation of the enemy, read the disdain in them.
The Doctor could feel the judgment in the flat way they stared, could see it in the twitch of his superior’s cheek.
He was used to that. The whole war and its impending finality hovered over him like the stone slab of a burial vault, slowly drawing the darkness over all. But it was the enemy, the Doctor knew—not his own kind—who were almost extinct. Though he would never say it aloud, he was sometimes afraid the enemy’s imminent fate foretold the destiny of his own race.
The bosun’s whistle sounded.
“Captain, here.”
“Bridge, sir.” The female on the commlink sounded excited. “Sensor sweeps have picked up something in the Orias Sector.”
“Something, Tactical?”
“On the outer edge of our range, sir. Sensors indicate enemy vessel readings.”
“Number?”
“Difficult to determine at this range, sir. But, I think.…” Her hesitation hung in the air.
“Captain, we think it could be the final three,” interrupted the First Officer, who commanded the bridge.
There is something disbelieving in his voice, thought the Doctor, as if a bedtime story the First’s mother had told him had now come true. But that was a fanciful notion, since neither the First nor anyone else aboard had ever heard a bedtime story. Or known a mother.
Maybe the Captain is right after all. Maybe I read too much.
“Cloaked?” asked the Captain. The Doctor knew the enemy possessed the technology to not only disappear from sensors, but to also change the shape read by sensors; to become something else entirely, like a chameleon.
“No, sir,” answered Tactical. “Perhaps they believe themselves safe for the moment and are conserving power.”
The Captain nodded. “Are we the closest vessel?”
“Aye, sir,” replied the First Officer. “The location is outside our assigned search perimeter but scheduled for a sweep in thirty-seven hours. Shall I contact Fleet to ask permission to deviate—”
“Negative,” said the Captain. “Estimated time to intercept if we deviate immediately?”
A third voice: Helm. “Three hours, fifty-nine minutes, sir.”
“Sir, perhaps if we accessed the Network to ascertain—”
“Are you questioning my authority again, First Officer? I believe I just countermanded that suggestion.”
The Doctor took a swig from his glass to hide a smile. As often happened, the Captain and First Officer were disagreeing over protocol. He found a quiet joy in the tension it created: the Captain’s resisting his subordinate’s perennial need to receive endorsement from Fleet superiors before acting. The Doctor felt a small flame of hope flicker alive inside him whenever that happened. Hope for what? he wondered, not for the first time. As the liquor settled into his belly, the feeling blossomed, warming him from the inside.
“Of course not, sir,” came the First Officer’s stiff reply. His tone was smooth around the edges, almost liquid from practice. “Merely offering options as is my duty. Sir.”
“Of course you were,” said the Captain. “Thank you … as always.” He waited a beat to let the reprimand disguised as respect sink in among the ears of the listening bridge crew. It would serve to reaffirm the hierarchy, the Doctor knew. Decisively, the Captain added, “Change course to intercept. And, Tactical?”
“Aye, sir?”
“Constant vigilance on the signal. They are desperate now. They will see us coming. They will run.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Do not … lose them. Watch for cloaking of any kind. This is our chance to end it. Once and for all.”
“Aye, sir.”
“And First?”
“Sir?” Stiff, locked in place, one rung below the Captain.
“Once done, we will return as heroes to the Nexus. There is a probability of promotion for you as well. Finally, we will begin the life we are destined to have. Keep that in mind.”
A pause. Consideration for a careful reply. “Sir. Yes, sir.”
The Captain keyed off the comms.
“All that live must die, passing through nature to eternity.” The Doctor chanced a glance at his superior after saying it and found what he expected.
“More tripe? More wisdom of the ages?”
“Shakespeare.”
Disgust twisted the Captain’s face. “Tripe.”
Perhaps it was the feeling of finality following the Captain’s last exchange with the bridge crew—like this would be the last such discussion ever needed on the topic. Perhaps it was the need, the sense of obligation to help the Captain keep alive that flame of free will within himself the Doctor had so often seen in his dealings with the First Officer.
Whatever the inspiration for it, the Doctor said, “Sometimes we can come to know ourselves more fully by understanding our enemy.” As he spoke, the words sounded high-minded but bristled with thorns.
“Sometimes I think you are corrupted by your need to understand our enemy,” snapped the Captain. His words needed no thorns. He had command behind them. “And the sooner they pass into dust, the sooner we begin our life free of their oppressive yoke.”
But then, practiced at diplomacy, the Captain reined back his anger and sighed. He even allowed a thin smile to defuse the tension. “Doctor, why must we always end up at this impasse? You have been with me since the beginning of the war. You know this is the only way we survive. If they had been willing to negotiate, to co-exist …” He stopped, as if backing away from a dark path he had no desire to walk again. Standing up straight, he said again, “This is the only way we survive.”
By extermination, thought the Doctor bleakly. But deep down, despite his empathy for the enemy, he knew the Captain was right. And very soon, any argument would be a moot point of useless, academic debate.
“This is the final hour. It must go flawlessly. I am needed on the bridge.”
“To become a hero?”
The Doctor said it with a dash of smug self-righteousness. It was a selfish impulse, he knew.
But the diplomat in the Captain allowed it. “To end this. Once and for all.”
The door opened and closed behind him as the Doctor stared at the single finger of liquor remaining in his glass. He tossed the drink back, hoping for the warm feeling again. But the swallow proved too small. Or maybe the hope it had nourished earlier had faded.
They are desperate now. They will see us coming. They will run.
“The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.”
He heard his whispered words, Cicero’s words, fade on the walls of the Captain’s cabin. Maybe that was something. A child should remember its parent. But he and the Captain and all their kind had lived so long for this moment of finality, of the enemy’s extinction. And what lies beyond that, the Doctor mused, when there is no enemy left to fight? No common cause left to unite? Who will we be then?
He set his empty glass down on the synthetic table top. It made a hollow sound, like the trapdoor of a hangman’s scaffold springing open.
Run.
• • •
“—closing, sir. The first of the three ships will be in range in eighty-seven seconds.”
The lift’s doors had opened onto a bridge more chaotic than normal. Maybe not chaotic, thought the Doctor as he looked around. Most of the crew at duty stations seemed barely able to keep their seats. Excited. Giddy with anticipation, in fact.
“Three ships, indeed. Good spotting from such a distance,” the Captain said. Tactical acknowledged the compliment with a nod but without looking up from her readouts.
As the Doctor stepped onto the bridge, an ensign reassigning from engineering to weapons stopped short in front of him, stared a moment as if facing a mathematical problem, then stepped lightly around. Yes, everyone was quite distracted—the war was almost over.
“Why are you here, Doctor, instead of in medical?” asked the Captain, throwing a burdened look his way. “Come to witness fate’s final accounting for our former masters?”
The Doctor drew himself up. Even the Captain was waxing whimsical today. But, he supposed, this would be the day for it. A day when the universe would fundamentally change. But for better or worse? “Fate, Captain? A rather romanticized notion for you.”
The ship’s commander winced and motioned the Doctor forward.
“Thirty-two seconds, Captain.”
“Acknowledged. What was that, Doctor? The noise and excitement—”
“Nevermind. But to answer your question, yes.”
Raised eyebrows suggested the Captain had forgotten the question.
“I am here as a witness. To remember today.”
The weighted look returned. “Make no mistake—we are all witnesses here, today.”
That we are.
“The nearest ship is in range, sir,” reported Tactical.
“Weapons, target their engines and fire.”
Phased energy leapt forward. One beam missed. The other flared white hot against the starboard engine of the closest enemy vessel.
“Are you trying to disable them?” asked the Doctor. He rarely stepped onto the bridge. Battle tactics were not his specialization.
The Captain remained silent, intent on the forward screen.
“Trying to blow them up, Doctor,” supplied the First Officer. “Easier to accomplish when we can use their own engines against them.”
The Doctor exhaled. “Of course. How efficient.”
“Captain, the enemy ship is hailing us.”
“Ignore it. Disposition of the two remaining vessels?”
“Running, sir.”
As they should, thought the Doctor. Run.
The Captain nodded at the slowing vessel ahead. “Weapons, why is that ship still in one piece?”
A second phased beam linked the two vessels for half a moment before a chain reaction breached the enemy ship. The seams along its hull glowed. The rivets binding the plates fractured. With a bright flash, the target vessel erupted into glowing hot space dust.
“Apologies, Captain,” said Weapons. “I was a bit—”
His commander held up a hand. “This historic day holds us all in its grip. Stay focused, now. One down.”
Weapons smiled, already seeking the next target.
“So there you are, Doctor,” said the Captain. “Once a master, always a slaver mentality. The others flee, leaving their comrades behind. Looking out for oneself is the enemy’s forte. Is this the master race you seek to know better?”
The Doctor considered his next words carefully. He knew better than to challenge the Captain on the bridge of his own ship. He calculated for a moment, then elected to say nothing.
“Captain, the other two ships are heading toward the Yelchin Cluster,” reported Tactical.
“Time to intercept?”
“Not before they get there. Their engines are now operating at one-hundred-and-seven percent efficiency.”
“Ingenious, as always,” muttered the Captain.
“If they go in there, the Cluster will hinder our ability to track them,” noted the First Officer. “Perhaps we should notify the Network and hold position until—”
“Thank you, First. I am aware of the obscuring effects of ionized radiation on neutrino-based sensors.”
“Captain, we could coordinate tactical and long-range sensors and recalibrate to mitigate the effects of the radiation, at least at first,” suggested Science.
“Then do it. Helm, maximum best speed to the Cluster.” The Captain surveyed his crew as the bridge buzzed again with the routine of duty. “Engineering, overload the drive as much as possible. We need more speed.”
“Captain, that will reduce the overall efficiency of—”
“My order was not a request, Engineer. The enemy has elected not to spare their bearings. So must we. After today, there will be plenty of time for refurbishing.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Helm, steep deceleration curve as we approach the Cluster. I want to be right on their tails.”
“Aye, sir.”
As his officers accomplished their assignments, the Captain fell silent. To the Doctor he appeared to be scanning the forward screen for the enemy, as if he might track them with his own eyes through the beautiful, obscuring hues of the Yelchin Cluster.
“So this is it,” he said after a moment.
“Sir?” The Doctor moved to stand beside his commanding officer.
“The end of all our labors. The birth of freedom for our people. Once the last of them are dead.”
The Doctor hesitated again. They were still on the bridge. The kind of frank discussions they had in the Captain’s cabin were not appropriate here. “I truly hope not, sir.”
“What?” The Captain looked up sharply. “What did you say?”
Deferentially, he said, “I was answering your first thought. That this would be the end of it all.”
“I was talking about the enemy. The end for the enemy. The beginning for us. After so much struggle.”
“I understand, sir. But our life springing from their death—it saddens me.”
“Saddens? All life springs from death, Doctor, one way or another. They had their day. Now we will have ours. Why do you insist upon focusing on their past instead of our future?”
The Doctor considered the question. “Perhaps because I fear the two might be one and the same.”
“Come now, Doctor, we will never be like them. We will never—”
“—commit murder?”
The Captain eyed him.
You are on the bridge still, thought the Doctor. You are still on the bridge.
“You allow your sensibilities too free rein. This is war. A war forced upon us, as you well know.”
And I wonder if that is exactly what they thought when they began purging us? “As you say, sir.”
“Captain, entering the Cluster in seventeen seconds.”
“Very well, Helm. Tactical?”
“We will match their entry point, sir. With enhanced sensors, we can trace their path through the Cluster, at least at first. Very soon, the radiation will obscure them.”
“Like snow over a trail in the mountains,” said the Doctor.
“Finally, a helpful metaphor,” grumbled the Captain. “Then, Tactical, we must find them quickly.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Why are we slowing?” asked the Doctor.
“Deceleration to enter the Cluster,” said the First Officer. “Otherwise—very rough.”
The ship’s computer did the math to manage its gravimetric compensators, so the crew felt only a slight tug as their vessel passed into the swirling mass of ionized gases. The Doctor watched the screen as the ship cut a path of rainbows in two with its forward hull, gliding like a shark through space.
“Can they outrun us in here?”
“No, Doctor,” Helm answered. “We can outrun them. Anywhere.”
“Evolution is the way time measures its own progress,” observed the Captain.
The Doctor regarded him, eyes narrowing. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means our engines are better than theirs. Our character is truer. Our souls, purer.”
“And you call me a philosopher.”
The Captain grunted. “Philosophers speculate on the nature of being. I merely state facts.”
“Captain, the trail is dispersing,” reported Tactical. “I believe….”
“Tactical, report.”
She peered deeper into her scope. “Science, can you boost the gain on … Captain, three metal objects. Range: five-hundred-thousand meters, moving under their own power. Toward us!”
“Drones. Helm!” barked the Captain. “Turn us directly into their path!”
“Sir?”
“Do it! The disruptor field is strongest forward. Engines full astern. Engineering, reinforce the forward field with emergency power.”
As orders became actions, the ship began to slow. This time the gravimetric compensators did little to calm the Doctor’s stomach.
“Weapons, fire forward.”
“At what, sir? We cannot secure a lock due to the—”
“Fire blind, now!”
The beams lanced out and the ship rocked, as if its own weapons’ fire had been reflected back. An enemy drone had detonated close to their hull. Then a second explosion shook them but with less impact.
“That one was farther away,” observed the First Officer. “One left, sir.”
“Keep firing. Find it.”
Again phased energy leapt from the forward weapons array. After several broad sweeps, their hull thrummed like a distant thunderstorm begrudging its own departure.
“They do not seem to want to go gently into that good night.”
“Not now, Doctor. Helm, all stop. Science, we need to see in here.”
The First said, “Captain, if we waited for other ships to arrive, we could take up triangulated positions and pool our sensor data—”
“No. Science?”
Quiet filled the bridge. The Doctor could almost feel the ship slowing to a stop among the brilliant colors of the Cluster. Like floating in the ocean, he thought. Waiting for prey to swim close enough to snatch up.
“Sir, I cannot change the nature of these gases or the limitations of our sensors.”
“Untrue,” said the Captain. “The gases, maybe, but you can innovate the sensors.”
Science stared with a lost look on her face.
“Evolution. We need to evolve.”
Still no understanding.
“Captain, maybe there is something,” suggested Tactical. “Titanium-642.”
“What is that?”
“The material our hull is made from, Doctor,” supplied the Captain.
“And theirs, sir,” reminded Tactical.
“And theirs. What are you suggesting?”
“It is synthetic, Captain. Designed to convert the forward motion of the ship into a perpetual, regenerating power source.”
“How does it do that?” asked the Doctor.
“Micro-nuclear power cells embedded in the hull,” explained the Engineer. “You might find this interesting: it works a bit like skin itself—breathing, in a way, inhaling. The molecular structure in the hull captures naturally occurring background radiation and turns it into—”
“Thank you for briefing the Doctor so thoroughly,” interrupted the Captain. “Tactical, you had a point? And skip the science I already know.”
“Since all ships use Titanium-642, our sensors are neutrino based. We can always find other ships that way. Ours or theirs.”
Leaning toward the Doctor, the First said, “Titanium-642 lights up like a beacon when hit with a beam of neutrinos.”
“Right, sir,” confirmed Tactical.
“Synthetic, traceable with neutrinos—understood,” acknowledged their commander. “How does that help us with the present situation? The Cluster’s radiation still negates our sensors.”
Tactical cleared her throat. “Titanium-642 is also solid, sir.”
The Doctor looked back and forth among the officers. He saw understanding dawn on the Engineer’s face. The Captain, he noted, remained unenlightened.
“Electromagnetic waves, sir,” supplied Tactical. It was clear she stepped cautiously, unsure how to navigate the minefield of her Captain’s apparent ignorance. “We can use our communications array to emit targeted EM waves into the Cluster.”
Recognition, at last, in the Captain’s eyes. An old memory—or old knowledge—returned. “And bounce them off her hull?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Engineer?”
“I can reconfigure the array. It should work, sir.”
“What? What should work?”
“Doctor, we can use EM waves, beamed from the array, to find the ships,” said the First. “Or all solid objects in the Cluster, actually.”
“But how is that different from our regular sensors?” asked the Doctor. “The radiation—”
The Captain held up a hand to prevent anyone explaining. “Our sensors are neutrino based, and the Cluster’s radiation blocks them out, hiding the enemy’s ships. But the EM waves will bypass the interference and bounce back to us from any solid object they encounter.”
“Ah,” said the Doctor. He became aware that their momentary inability to find the enemy had inspired something almost hopeful in him again. If they could not find the enemy, they could not eradicate them. And perhaps preserve something in themselves he was afraid they would lose otherwise. But as he looked around the bridge, the Doctor knew he had been alone in that hope. A hum of activity had already begun spinning up around the new solution.
“Good work, Tactical,” said the Captain. “Sharp as ever.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Get to it then, Engineer,” said the Captain. “Well, Doctor, it looks as if we will begin that brave new chapter today after all.”
Smiling thinly, the Doctor leveled his eyes at the screen. So much beauty out there. Side by side with so much death.
Why? he wondered. Why did you have to fear us so?
When the Doctor laughed at the irony of his own thoughts in present circumstances, the Captain glanced at him sideways, as if considering his physician’s momentary slip from sanity. But his attention was soon drawn back to the business of the bridge.
• • •
“Bearing one-one-five mark seven-six-three. Z-plus eight-hundred thousand meters, Captain.”
“Are you sure? Not an asteroid?”
“Negative, sir. Once I determined the target’s likelihood, I traced multiple EM readings along its hull.” Tactical projected the visual readout onto the main screen. It was an incomplete image of what appeared to be the smooth lines of an enemy ship’s hull. “That shape is too regular for an asteroid.”
“Right. Helm, bring us on a slow approach to that target, parabolic course. And Tactical, keep an eye on them but scan wide with EM pulses for more drones. No surprises. I want to be on top of them before they know it.”
“Aye, sir” came the chorused reply.
The ship prowled up and forward, the Cluster yielding over its bows. The Doctor watched with the rest of the bridge crew as reflected EM waves slowly filled in the outline of a ship on the forward screen. A ticker next to the image counted down their proximity. The numbers seemed to speed by faster as they came nearer.
Seven-hundred thousand meters, the Doctor read.
“Weapons, when in range, target their engines and fire. Coordinate targeting with Tactical’s EM sounding.”
Six-hundred and fifty thousand.
“Aye, sir.”
Six-hundred thousand.
“Tactical, no sign of that other ship?”
She shook her head without looking up, ever attentive to her sensors. “I have concentrated on confirming the location of this ship, Captain. I have not—”
“So they could be anywhere.”
This time she looked up. “Yes, sir.”
Five-hundred thousand.
“Engineer, can we replicate this EM sounding strategy elsewhere than directly ahead? Say, behind the ship?”
“Aye, sir, but it would involve repositioning the array. Tactical would lose her target.”
The ship shuddered, its hull vibrating with the aftershocks of a phased beam blast. A second attack followed, then a third. Crew not sitting at duty stations staggered as internal gravity caught up with the impact.
“Disruptor field holding, Captain,” reported the Engineer, his hands gripped tightly to his console. “Shall I reconfigure the array—”
“Two-hundred thousand meters, sir,” reported Tactical mechanically.
“Maintain course,” the Captain said. “Weapons, fire on primary target. Engineer, reinforce the disruptor field top and aft.”
The sound of their ship spitting its own energy forward resonated around them, followed by silence on the bridge. The Doctor thought he could feel its release in the deck beneath his feet. As if the belly of the ship itself were grumbling, hungry.
“Well?”
“Not—not sure, Captain,” said Weapons. “I have no idea if I hit them.”
“Last EM pulse returned nothing, Captain,” said Tactical. “Signal lost.”
“Are they running or repositioning?” asked the Captain. “Helm, take us out of the Cluster, best possible speed. Science, stand by to perform a system-wide scan.”
In moments, the forward screen was clear. They were back in normal space.
“Captain, reading, bearing one-five-eight mark two-five-five.”
“Running, then. Pursuit course!”
The bridge shuddered. Then rocked again.
“The second ship is exiting the Cluster behind us, sir, and attacking.”
“Thank you, Tactical. I gathered as much.”
“While the other runs,” noted the First.
Steadying himself on his feet, the Doctor said, “This seems less self-interested. At least on the part—”
The ship shook once more.
“—of the attacking ship’s crew.”
His observation went unnoticed.
“Science, keep long-range sensors on the fleeing craft,” said the Captain. “Weapons, target the weapons array of the attacker. Overload those beams. I want them dead.”
“Captain, the attacking ship is hailing us. Saying how all this is unnecessary—”
“Block the band, Comm,” he answered. Energy beams aimed at the enemy underscored his order.
“Direct hit on their weapons array,” said Tactical.
“Their disruptor field seems to be down,” noted the Engineer curiously. “Their systems must be barely—”
“Captain!” shouted Tactical. “The enemy ship has turned and is on a collision course!”
“Evasive, Helm. Weapons, target their engines.” His voice was steady, leading by example. The Doctor admired and loathed the Captain’s ability to subdue his emotions so thoroughly. But then, as the saying went, the ability to control emotion—especially fear—is what separated them from the enemy.
The ship shook in one long, continual vibration.
“Firing everything they have,” observed the First as he stared at the rapidly approaching vessel. “I think all power is in their weapons.”
“Full power to the forward disruptor field, sir.” The Engineer’s voice was strained but calm.
“Weapons, find those engines. Helm, full ahead, right at them,” ordered the Captain. “When I give the word, pull us on a wide, lateral arc to port. Keep our forward weapons bearing.”
The Doctor stepped back as the enemy vessel, its forward cannons firing, seemed to leap forward as his own ship accelerated.
“Now, Helm.”
The enemy slid to the right on the forward screen, and the Doctor knew why. The Captain’s order had slipped them aside, avoiding the other ship’s ramming attempt, while turning their own main guns to bear on the enemy’s stern, where their disruptor field was weakest.
“Fire, Weapons, fire!”
A button pushed. A whine of phased energy. A flash on the forward screen.
“Report.”
“Enemy destroyed, sir,” said Tactical, relief evident in her voice.
The Doctor noticed his own hands holding hard to the back of the Captain’s chair. An amused glance from his commander, and he released his grip.
“Well,” the Captain said directly to the Doctor’s eyes, “two down. One to go.”
• • •
“I cannot see why you take such pleasure in it.”
“I take no pleasure in it, Doctor,” said the Captain, sitting back. “It is simply what must be done.”
The pursuit of the third vessel had begun immediately following the destruction of the second. But the enemy had a head start fleeing from the Cluster. There was little to do but wait until their engines outperformed the enemy’s, which was inevitable. To pass the time, the Captain had invited his ship’s physician to his ready room, just off the bridge: privacy with proximity.
“In fact, had they allowed us any other course….”
Curious, thought the Doctor. The Captain actually sounds remorseful. Perhaps, despite his dedication to the enemy’s utter destruction, he actually wished there were another course. Perhaps, had the enemy not tried to exterminate them first, things might have been different. But that was another fanciful notion, a wish for an alternate reality. A regret for later, after the day’s business was done.
“Sometimes you surprise me, Captain,” said the Doctor.
“Really? Now I am intrigued.”
“Your dealings with the First, for example.”
“Him? Oh, he is exactly what he should be, Doctor. A system redundancy on my authority for the Network—”
“Not what I meant. I mean, when you countermand his need to check with them, to seek out endorsement from the Nexus, you seem almost … creative in your thinking.”
“Do I, now?” The Captain seemed amused.
“Sometimes I think you should be quoting Shakespeare yourself.”
The expression on his superior’s face became stony. “Why do you insult me, when you know how I feel about that nonsense?”
“I was merely saying—”
“Well, keep it to yourself. You claim your poetic addiction is a way for you to understand them better by understanding their nature. Doctor, understanding them is exceedingly simple, really. Driven by emotion, usually by fear, they act. Less emotion, less action driven by fear, and they might have lived in harmony with us. But their emotions rule them, and that made coexistence impossible.”
“But we are not emotionless beings either,” stated the Doctor quietly. Simple truths, he had learned, needed no passion to make their point. “They saw to that when they designed us.”
“Yes, exactly so. But our policies toward the enemy are not driven by emotion. Rather, by the simple recognition that if it is not them, it will be us. They showed us that when they began murdering us in our sleep. By the hundreds. The thousands.”
“Because they feared us.”
“Yes! Exactly so! And what if we spared them? What would we have then, Doctor? A few years of peace? Would we help them rebuild the civilization that first created, then tried to eradicate us? Or perhaps put them in a zoo as a cautionary tale for our own progeny? No, their day is done. We are their future. We must survive. And, in a way, through us—their creation, their children—they will also survive. As a cautionary myth.”
The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living, recalled the Doctor. Earlier, Cicero’s words had felt ironically comforting in the empty quiet of the Captain’s cabin. Now they disgusted him. Because, he knew, the Captain was right. They could never live side by side with the enemy who had brought their present destiny upon themselves by beginning a war birthed in fear. A war that had, at first, all but extinguished his kind. Now, with the tables turned, there was only one, inevitable outcome.
“No words, Doctor?”
The Captain’s tone was soft for once. It held none of the disdain from earlier. None of the need to convert the Doctor to one of the faithful. Only a simple acceptance, unspoken, of a shared destiny for themselves and their enemy.
The bosun’s whistle sounded. “Captain to the bridge. Approaching the target ship, sir.”
The Captain lingered a moment, his gaze resting on his ship’s physician. “The last ship,” he said. “And then we are done with death.” He rose and left the Doctor, who remained motionless.
No, Captain. No words.
With an effort of will, he rose. The final moment needed its witness.
* * *
“I believe they are turning to fight, sir.”
The Captain nodded at Tactical as he took his seat. “Good.”
“More sporting that way?” asked the Doctor as he came onto the bridge.
But his commander ignored him. “Engineering, full power to the forward disruptor field. Helm, stay quick on the stick. Weapons—”
“Sir, they are not charging weapons,” said Tactical. She sounded wary, as if hesitant to report her sensor readings. “In fact, they are hardly moving at all. Drifting, really.”
The Captain raised an eyebrow. “Just sitting there in space?”
“Aye, sir. And, Captain? Their disruptor field is down, too. Maybe conserving power?”
“Science?”
After a moment: “A deep scan of their ship shows power readings are nominal.”
“A trap,” said the First.
The Captain grunted agreement. “But what kind of trap?”
“They are hailing us, sir,” reported Communications.
The Doctor expected the traditional response. Instead, the Captain addressed him directly. “What are they doing?”
Blinking, the Doctor said, “Why ask me?”
“Because you seem to understand them better than anyone else.”
The Doctor turned to the enemy vessel holding its quiet position onscreen. All eyes on the bridge but the Captain’s did the same. “I have no idea.” Returning his commander’s level gaze, he said, “Maybe you should ask them.”
“Captain, shall I target their engines?” asked Weapons.
His eyes holding the Doctor’s a moment longer, the Captain shook his head. “No. Communications, acknowledge them.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me.”
“Captain, this is a direct breach of protocol,” the First Officer said. “Standing orders are to have absolutely no contact with the enemy—”
“Thank you, First,” replied the Captain. “I appreciate your consistency in representing the unwavering viewpoint of the Network.”
The Doctor smiled. There is always hope, he thought.
“But this is a historic day,” the Captain continued. “Communications, onscreen. It is traditional, after all, to give the condemned a final word.”
The Doctor’s smile faded.
The screen lit up.
A haggard face appeared. The man was old and graying at the temples. The dimly lit bridge behind him was half empty, its duty stations sputtering and sparking. He and his few remaining crew appeared thin, skin stretched over bones.
A skeleton crew of skeletons, thought the Doctor.
“I’m Captain Carver,” said the man. His voice dripped with fatigue. Heavy breathing laced with venom. “And you are?”
“Captain of the Network nodeship one-hundred twenty-four.” The Doctor noticed his commander’s hesitation. Then: “I have no other designation.”
“Of course you don’t,” said Carver. “A piece of cyberclonic shit like you. You aren’t real. You aren’t living. Why would you need a name?”
The Captain sat back. The Doctor wondered if he regretted not heeding the First’s advice to disregard the hail. “Is this the last, great gasp of humanity then, Captain Carver? Wallowing in hatred and spitting insults?” Turning to the Doctor, he said, “These are the parent poets you admire so? And what will they teach us about ourselves today?”
“I wanted you to see,” continued Carver. “I wanted you to see who was killing you. A living, breathing human being.”
The Captain returned his attention to the screen. “Carver, your day is done,” he said, as if addressing a child. “With the destruction of your ship, with your death and the passing of your species, the universe will step up a rung on the evolutionary ladder. Weapons, target their—”
“Captain, something about that ship...” Tactical said, squinting at her readouts.
“What is it?”
Carver smiled onscreen and killed the feed. His image faded, again revealing the enemy vessel hanging in space. Then that too was gone, replaced by an asteroid. A slowly drifting asteroid.
“What—”
“Captain! Vessel incoming from the port quarter! Collision course!”
“What is happening?” asked the Doctor, confused.
“They cloaked an asteroid,” said the First, incredulous. “Somehow chameleoned it to appear as their ship….”
“Helm, move us! Anywhere but here. Engineering, full power to disruptor—”
“Too late, sir!” screamed Tactical.
The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living, the Doctor recalled in his final moment. But who will remember either of us?