Star Trek: Pantheon (16 page)

It seemed far more likely that the Daa’Vit was the intended victim. But just to be sure, the captain resolved to discuss the alternative with Commander Riker. And with Worf himself, naturally, at a—

The captain’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt as he felt the ship surge violently beneath him. On the viewscreen there was an accompanying shift—as the dashes of starlight shortened up considerably.

“Mr. Data,” he said, “I gave no order to accelerate.”

The android had stationed himself at the conn station for the day to give Solis more practice at ops. His fingers were fluttering over the controls at a quicker than usual pace.

“Nor did I initiate any change in speed,” said Data. He swiveled in his seat to face Picard. “Nonetheless, sir, we
have
accelerated. We are proceeding at warp nine point nine five.”

The captain shook his head, incredulous. The
Enterprise’
s engines weren’t supposed to be
capable
of propelling it that fast—at least, not for more than a few seconds.

“Are you certain?” he asked Data.

The android turned back to his console and checked. “Diagnostics confirm it, sir. Unless the entire computer system has malfunctioned, we are traveling at a rate equal to five thousand ninety-four times the speed of light.”

Picard felt a slight queasiness in his stomach as he rose and approached the conn station. Normally, he didn’t check up on his bridge personnel—particularly Data. But there was nothing
normal
about this.

Sure enough, the monitor showed that they were clipping along at 9.95. The queasiness grew worse. Could this have anything to do with the attempt on Morgen’s life?

“How is this possible?” he asked the android.

“I do not know, sir.”

One thing was certain—the ship could not be allowed to continue at this speed. Who knew what it would do to the warp engines? The hull integrity? “Slow to warp six again,” he instructed Solis.
“Immediately.”

The dark-haired lieutenant looked up at him. “Captain…I know this sounds crazy, but the engines are
already
working at warp six. Or at least, what
should
be warp six.”

Picard glanced at the viewscreen, as if it could tell him something his officers couldn’t. But it yielded nothing of value.

“Mr. La Forge,” he called.

“La Forge here,” came the response.

“This is the captain. I’m up on the bridge.” Picard licked his lips. “Commander, I want you to check on the warp drive—tell me how fast we should be going.”

“Should
be?” asked Geordi.

“There seems to be some question as to our speed,” explained the captain.

“Sir, I just
checked
the warp drive. I felt a surge and I wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

“And?” Picard prodded.

“Everything seems to be in order. As for how fast we’re going…let’s see.” The captain could picture Geordi checking his instruments. “That would be warp six.”

Picard felt his teeth grinding. “Commander, what would you say if I told you we were traveling at warp nine point nine five?”

The intercom system was silent for a moment. “I’d say that’s impossible,” answered the engineering chief.

“And yet,” the captain told him, “our external sensors indicate that we are doing just that. Nor is there any evidence of sensor failure.”

This time, Geordi took even longer to react. “You mean we’re exceeding top speed—and our engines
aren’t?”

Picard managed to keep his voice free of the frustration he was feeling. “That is how it appears.”

“I’ll be right there,” Geordi told him.

The captain grunted. “Thank you, Mister La Forge.” He turned back to Data. “For the time being, Commander, I think it would be wise to drop out of warp altogether.”

“Aye, sir,” replied the android. With practiced ease, he went through the necessary routine on his board. However, even after Data was finished, Picard could feel the vibration of warp speed in the hull—could see the streaks of light darting by on the viewscreen.

“What is going
on?”
he asked.

“I cannot say,” the android responded. “The warp drive has been disengaged. Yet our sensors indicate that we are still proceeding at warp nine point nine five.”

The captain felt a muscle in his jaw start to twitch. With an effort, he controlled it. “Then we cannot slow down,” he concluded.

It was not a question, but Data answered it anyway. “That is correct, sir.”

Picard resolved not to panic—not even on the inside. Geordi would be here in a matter of moments, he told himself. His chief engineer would shed some light on this.

He had damned well better.

With both warp and impulse engines at rest, it was ominously quiet in engineering. As Geordi entered ahead of Data, two faces turned simultaneously in his direction—those of Phigus Simenon and Wesley Crusher.

“Thanks for being so prompt,” he told them.

“What’s the matter?” asked Wes.

“Must be something serious,” the Gnalish said. “You were up on the bridge for almost an hour.”

Geordi nodded. “It’s serious all right. That’s why I wanted the best help I could get.”

He headed for the master situation monitor and pulled up a schematic of the sector through which they were passing. The
Enterprise
showed up as a red blip in the middle of the diagram.

They all came closer to take a look.

“You’ll note,” Geordi pointed out, “that we’re moving pretty quickly—especially in light of the fact that our engines have been turned off.”

Data spoke up. “Warp nine point nine five, to be precise.”

Both Wesley and the Gnalish looked at him.

“You’re kidding,” said the ensign.

“I am not capable of humor,” replied the android. “As you know.”

“I assume you’ve checked for quirks in the sensor systems,” remarked Simenon. “After all, we know only what they tell us.”

“Checked and rechecked,” the chief engineer replied. “They’re working just fine.”

“So we’re sailing along at warp nine point nine five, and without even lifting a finger.” Wesley shook his head, disbelieving.

“Curious,” agreed the Gnalish.

“Apparently,” Geordi told them, “we’ve gotten caught in some sort of subspace phenomenon. A
slipstream,
for lack of a more precise description. And it’s carrying us ahead against our will.” He paused, looking at the others. “I don’t have to tell you what this means.”

“We’ll be at Daa’V in a matter of hours,” said Simenon. “And out into uncharted space in a few days.”

“That’s exactly right,” the chief engineer said. “And from what I understand, there could be problems if Morgen’s late for the coronation ceremony—
big
problems. After all, not everyone on Daa’V is thrilled to see him succeed to the throne, and they’d love an excuse for denying it to him. Which is why we left ourselves plenty of time to get him there.”

“Or so you thought,” added the Gnalish.

“Or so we thought,” Geordi echoed. “And even at warp factor nine point two—the maximum speed the
Enterprise
can sustain for any extended period of time—we’re going to be able to return to Federation space only one-fourth as fast as we’re leaving it. In other words, every day out is going to mean
four
days back. So if we’re going to solve this problem, we’d better do it soon—before we find ourselves in the middle of a major interplanetary incident.”

“Or worse,” said Simenon. “We don’t know very much about subspace phenomena, gentlemen—but the ones we’ve observed seem to be quite variable. That means we may continue this way for a while—but it is more likely we will suddenly be released. Or carried along even
faster.”
He looked at Geordi in particular, his serpentine eyes slitted. “And then, of course, there is a fourth possibility.”

The chief engineer nodded. “The nature of the anomaly could change altogether. We could suddenly find ourselves in a subspace whirlpool—or something even
more
violent.”

“The moral being to get the hell off this roller coaster,” the Gnalish amplified. “Preferably,
before
it has a chance to do us in.”

Wesley straightened. “You can count on me,” he told Geordi.

La Forge smiled. “I know I can, Ensign.”

Data had already pledged his best efforts. The chief engineer turned to Simenon. “And you, sir?”

The Gnalish’s mouth quirked, “What do
you
think?”

For a brief moment, Geordi flashed back on a question the captain had asked of him up on the bridge, when nobody else was listening:
“Commander…is it possible that this was accomplished by an act of sabotage? That we were somehow maneuvered into this slipstream you speak of?”

At the time, Geordi had said it was
not
possible. And he still believed that. No one—not even the best mind in the Federation—had a good enough grasp of subspace phenomena to use one in setting a trap.

But whoever the assassin was, that individual couldn’t have been too upset about running into the slipstream. It was a distraction—a complication that could only work to his or her advantage.

And if the murderer was Simenon—a possibility the chief engineer had to consider, even if he found it unlikely—he would have every reason not to see their work proceed smoothly.

“I think,” Geordi said at last, “that I’m glad to have you on my team.”

The Gnalish smiled. “Naturally.”

As the doors parted, Riker entered the apartment.

Morgen was standing in the center of the foreroom, looking a little too much like a caged beast for the first officer’s taste. “I trust,” said the Daa’Vit, “that you’re not here just to check up on me. I could hardly have complied better with the captain’s wishes—much to the detriment of my disposition.”

“No,” Riker assured him, “I’m not here to check up on you.”

“What then?”

“We’ve got a problem. And since it may affect your arrival on Daa’V, Captain Picard felt you should know about it.”

At the mention of his homeworld, Morgen’s attention turned up a notch. “I’m listening,” he said.

“The
Enterprise
has run into a subspace phenomenon,” Riker explained. “Something we’ve never encountered before.”

“Has it thrown us off course?” the Daa’Vit asked.

The first officer shook his head. “No. Our course is unchanged. But the phenomenon has got us traveling at warp factor nine point nine five.”

Morgen’s forehead ridged over. “What?”

Riker nodded. “I know how it sounds, sir. But it’s the truth.”

The Daa’Vit gestured to one of the chairs. “Sit, Commander. Please.”

The human conformed to the request. Morgen sat across from him on a rather queer-looking couch—a stone-and-moss affair which had come from ship’s stores.

“Now,” the Daa’Vit told him, “say that again.”

Riker spread his hands. He went over the whole business, leaving nothing out. After all, it was Morgen’s right to know—not only as the next ruler of his people, but as a captain in Starfleet. And his initial surprise notwithstanding, the Daa’Vit seemed to take it in stride.

“You know,” he told Riker, “we had our share of close calls on the
Excalibur.
Maybe more than our share. Somehow, we always seemed to get out of them.” He smiled as he remembered, the surliness brought on by his confinement forgotten. “After a while, you develop a belief that there’s no problem you can’t solve—no trap from which you can’t devise an escape.” He looked meaningfully at his guest. “Do you know what I mean?”

The first officer nodded. “Yes, sir. I do.”

“Some might call that kind of confidence a trap in and of itself. And I suppose it could be. But more often, I think it’s an asset. Because if you really believe you’re going to upset the odds, you generally will.” Morgen ran his palm over a clump of moss on the couch, studied it. “I really
believe
we’re going to get out of this, Riker.” He raised his head, fixing the human with his yellow eyes. “How about
you?”

“And that,” said Troi, “is our predicament as I understand it.”

The rec cabin was empty but for the six of them—Troi herself, Ben Zoma, Cadwallader, Joseph, Greyhorse, and Asmund. The ship’s counselor looked from face to face. “Questions?”

“I take it Simenon is already involved in solving the problem,” said Greyhorse, his voice implying criticism of the idea—which was usually the case when he was talking about the Gnalish.

“That is correct,” Troi told him. “He is working closely with Geordi La Forge.”

The doctor added, “Much to Commander La Forge’s delight, no doubt.”

That drew a murmur of laughter; even the empath had to chuckle. Only Asmund, who sat in the back of the room apart from the others, seemed less than entertained by the remark.

“And Morgen?” asked Cadwallader.

“Commander Riker is discussing this with him separately. After all, there are political ramifications to his late arrival which will have to be dealt with.”

“Is there anything the rest of us can do?” asked Asmund.

Troi shook her head, noting how the woman’s professionalism had come to the fore as soon as she’d heard about the emergency. Otherwise, she would probably have resisted meeting with the others.

“Not at the present time,” said the counselor. “But if the situation changes, you will, of course, be notified.”

“Have you tried to contact any of our other ships?” asked Joseph. “The
Lexington,
for instance?”

The empath nodded. “We have sent out communications beacons. However, as long as we progress at this speed, no other ship can catch up to us—much less help us.”

Ben Zoma, who was sitting next to Joseph, clapped his security chief on the shoulder. “Well,” he said, “we all wanted to know what was out there. Maybe now we’re about to find out.” He looked at Troi, his dark eyes full of good cheer. “Don’t worry, Counselor. We served on the
Stargazer—
we’re used to blazing new territory.”

Troi was grateful for his help in keeping his comrades’ spirits up. And for Greyhorse’s as well—though that had not necessarily been the doctor’s purpose.

“If that’s all,” she said, “I should be getting back up to the bridge.”

No one objected. But as she made her way to the exit, she found Ben Zoma walking beside her.

She had a feeling it was no accident, but they were in the corridor—out of earshot of the others—before he confirmed it. “Counselor,” he said, looking straight ahead, “there’s a problem—isn’t there? I mean
beyond
this slipstream phenomenon.”

“A problem?” she echoed.

He turned to her, as serious as she’d ever seen him. “I’ve been at this too long not to know when something’s wrong. First of all, there’s an excess of security officers around—even if they’re trying their best not to be obvious about it. Second, Morgen’s spent an awful lot of time in his quarters lately. And third, the holodecks are suddenly off limits. Now, I don’t know what the others think, not having discussed this with them. But I’d be surprised if they weren’t a little suspicious as well.”

Troi looked him in the eye. “If you have a question,” she suggested, “you should take it up with the captain.” She smiled, hating the need to be evasive. “Even ship’s counselors aren’t privy to
everything,
you know.”

Ben Zoma didn’t quite buy her act; she could tell. But for now, he let the subject drop. “Very well, then,” he said, a glimmer of humor creeping back into his voice. Or was it irony? “I’ll let you go now. I’m sure you’ve got other duties to attend to.”

“Thank you,” she answered, and headed for the turbolift.

Picard glanced around the conference table at Geordi’s four-member crisis team. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said. “How will reversing engines allow us to escape this thing?”

“It won’t,” said Geordi. “But it might slow us down—buy some time.”

The captain nodded. “And time is a factor here, isn’t it?” He considered the strategy from all angles. “What about the stress it would place on the ship? Will the hull stand up under such circumstances?”

“There’s no way of knowing for sure,” said Simenon. “But my guess is that the stress will be within manageable limits.”

“Plus, we can administer reverse thrust gradually,” Wesley advised. “That way, if we see there’s going to be a problem, we can back off.”

Picard drummed his fingers on the table. “It’s risky.”

Data leaned forward slightly. “Captain, our present position is characterized by risk as well.”

Picard looked at the android. “I suppose that is true, Commander.” He turned to Geordi again, his decision made. “Very well, Mr. La Forge. We will give it a try.”

Rising, he tugged down hard on his tunic and led the way out of the observation lounge. As he took his seat in the command center, he saw Data proceed to ops and Wesley to conn, replacing the personnel who had been posted there. At the same time, Geordi took up his position at the engineering station.

Since the seats on either side of the captain’s were unoccupied, Simenon took one of them—where Riker usually sat. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked Picard. “After all, I have to sit somewhere.”

The captain almost smiled. “I thought you
hated
to be on the bridge.”

“It wasn’t such a novelty back then,” explained the Gnalish, already intent on the viewscreen.

“Really,” said Picard. It felt good to have Simenon beside him again—just like old times. Nor could the suspicion that had fallen on the Gnalish quite dampen the captain’s confidence in him.

Putting such thoughts aside for the moment, Picard raised his head and spoke. “This is the captain speaking. Secure all decks. In a few seconds we will be attempting a maneuver which may toss us about a bit—but not to worry. The ship is well under control.”

It sounded good. Now they would see how much
truth
there was to it.

Picard nodded to Wesley, who had turned around in his chair to wait for the captain’s signal. Facing forward, the ensign made the necessary preparations.

“Warp factor one,” said the captain. “Reverse thrust.”

“Warp factor one,” Wesley confirmed. “Reverse thrust.”

“Engage,” said Picard.

A shudder went through the ship, but only for a second. Then it stopped.

“No problems with hull integrity or ship’s systems,” reported Geordi. “But we haven’t slowed down one iota.”

The captain frowned. “Warp factor two, Mr. Crusher. Engage.”

Wesley executed the order. Again, there was a brief vibration.

“Still nothing,” Geordi said. “No cause for alarm, no change in speed.”

Picard noticed that Simenon was staring at him. He turned to face his former chief engineer, and the Gnalish looked down at his hand on the armrest. Four of his scaly gray fingers were extended; his thumb was folded back. When he looked up again at the captain, his meaning was clear.