The Lost Era: Well of Souls: Star Trek (32 page)

It was on the tip of Garrett’s tongue to protest that, no, every assignment was important, but she didn’t. The crew—Tyvan—was right.

“Plus, the crew’s beginning to second-guess themselves, rehash things from the past, wonder whether or not they made the right decisions, whether their commanding officers know what they’re doing.” Tyvan gave a sheepish grin. “Me, too.”

Tyvan said it all innocuously enough, but it was as if he’d read her mind.
Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a psychiatrist. He’s a Listener, not a Betazoid.
Garrett said, “What do you suggest?”

“To be honest? Sometimes it helps to think of us like a bunch of kids.”

“Doctor, some of them
are
kids.”

“Okay. So if a kid falls, what happens?”

“He cries?”

“Wrong. Most of the time, if it’s not serious and there’s not a lot of blood, he looks to the parent first. The parent’s reaction tells him how he ought to react. If the parent gets upset, so does the child. He’ll cry. But if the parent stays calm ...”

“The kid stays calm,” Garrett finished, impatient now. She had a son, for crying out loud; she didn’t need a tutorial in Parenting 101. “Are you suggesting that I’m not sending them ...
you
the right message?”

“Depends on the message you want to send, doesn’t it? Let me put it this way, Captain. If you weren’t having second thoughts about your own abilities, or rehashing the past, you wouldn’t be human. Now I know part of a captain’s job is to dissect what she perceives to be her mistakes. Otherwise, you can’t avoid them in the future.”

“This is something peculiar only to captains? I suppose you don’t rehash?”

“After you chewed me out and spat out the remainder faster than a photon torpedo?” Tyvan laughed. “I’d
better
.”

Garrett couldn’t help but grin. “I didn’t mean
that.
I meant, in your
work
.”

“Oh, that.” Tyvan made a dismissive gesture. “All the time. Except you can’t keep looking to the past when you’ve got to deal with the present. My patients aren’t static, you know. They change from day to day, session to session. But I’ve learned over time that the important stuff keeps coming back up, and so I try not to worry too much about what I think I’ve done wrong. I figure there’s almost always a second chance, a third. I’m not suggesting that a doctor, or a captain, should ignore the past. But
staying
in the past, brooding over past errors, will just get the doctor—and his patient—into a rut.”

“Or a captain,” said Garrett. For some inexplicable reason, she glanced at her mug of old coffee. “You think I’m in a rut?”

“
Are
you? We’re both up at an ungodly hour. We’re not sleeping.”

“What’s your excuse?”

Tyvan shrugged. “I wonder if I misread Halak all along. I brood over mistakes I make with patients, things like that. And you, you’re wandering the ship, haunting the bridge. Drinking old coffee.”

“I’m just minding my ship. Putting my house in order.”

“Oh, that sounds like something Lieutenant Glemoor would love to store away in his stash of Earth idioms. You know, now that you mention a house ... Freud said that whenever a house appears in a patient’s dream, the house represents the dreamer. So when we say that we’re putting our house in order, we’re talking about us.”

Garrett gave Tyvan a faint smile. “And my ship is me?”

“Why not? So, are you concerned about putting yourself in order? Not wanting to make mistakes again?”

Garrett thought of Nigel, and the choice she’d been forced to make. “You referring to something in particular?”

“Yes.” Tyvan’s brown eyes were steady but compassionate. “And you may believe I’m overstepping my bounds.”

“Then don’t,” said Garrett, a nervous flutter in her throat, though she kept her anxiety out of her face ... she hoped.

“But it’s my job,” said Tyvan, gently. “Captain, your sorrow for Nigel Holmes isn’t a secret.”

Damn that Jo.
“No?” she said, forcing lightness into her tone she didn’t feel.

“No, and I won’t insult you by pretending I don’t know. But you’ve lost one first officer, and you may very well lose another, and you have lost a great many other,” he paused—for emphasis, it seemed to Garrett, “other
things,
all in the past year or two.”

A marriage. My son. The man I loved, and may still.
“And?” said Garrett. Her chest was tight, and she had to work to breathe.

“Captain, are you quite sure that you’re not obsessing about a dead man and everything you
think
you did wrong in order to avoid thinking about the guilt and responsibility and sorrow you feel for all these other deaths?”

Garrett had a strange feeling then. She’d been prepared for—no,
steeled
herself against a wave of anxiety she knew was dammed up behind a fragile mental barrier. But, instead of anxiety or guilt, a wave of relief seemed to wash away the blackness tainting her mind, her perceptions. It was as if a strong wind had blown away a dense bank of clouds from her mind, and the sun begun to shine.
Yes, that’s right, that’s exactly it.

But some perverse part of her—the part that didn’t want to let go because old habits die hard—said, “Sometimes all your choices are bad ones. So you choose the lesser of evils.”

“That’s not the same as a mistake. That’s just a choice you didn’t like.”

“Yes,” said Garrett.
Uncanny, that’s what Ven said a week ago? Ten days?

“So you’re brooding over your choices—good, bad, indifferent. We’ll never know if they were right or wrong, or if things have worked out for the best because things will just work out, Captain. They always do. So let’s not talk about
ghosts. Nigel Holmes is dead, and you’ve lost many things, but Halak is alive. What about him?”

“I don’t know. I trusted Halak ... no, that’s not right. Maybe I was trying to get there, but probably I wasn’t being fair to him. And, damn it, my gut says things aren’t the way SI says.”

“But he
did
lie. Dr. Stern proved that, and Halak admitted to it.”

“Maybe he made a bad choice.” Garrett’s eyes slid sideways. “Tell me something. You think he murdered those men?”

Tyvan didn’t hesitate. “No. Just because he’s lied about one thing doesn’t mean that everything he’s said is a lie. I believe Dr. Stern would say something like true, true, unrelated. True, the men are dead. True, Halak lied. But the events may be unrelated.”

“But how do you know?”

“I don’t
know
anything.” Tyvan spread his hands. “Call it intuition.”

“So, you’re saying, go with my gut.”

“Trust your crew, Captain, and trust yourself.” Tyvan held her gaze. “Forgive yourself. And, for God’s sake, get some sleep.”

“Now
that’s
...” Garrett began, but a hail shrilled. Crossing to her companel, Garrett jabbed it to silence. “Garrett.”

“Glemoor, Captain. I think you should come out here.”

At Glemoor’s tone, Garrett became alert. “What is it?”

“A ghost, Captain. Lots and lots of ghosts.”

“Sensor ghosts.” Garrett was bent over a sensor displaying the probe’s telemetry data. “Of what?”

“Unknown. There are also trace amounts of arkenium duranide,” said Glemoor, “larger amounts of ferrocarbonite. Cohesive globules of ionized plasma.”

“Well, the’ ionized plasma isn’t a surprise.” Garrett straightened and winced as a muscle in the small of her back
complained. She inched her hand around to massage the muscle. “You have a theory about the rest?”

“Yes. This is data from a second probe. The first I set to scan after 600,000 kilometers. If the source was a neutron star, that should have been a good distance. But at 600,000 kilometers, the probe accelerated, and I lost it before I could program in a course change.”

“Gone?” Garrett was startled, her aching back forgotten. “Just like that?”

“In the blink of an eye, Captain. So I sent out another probe, easing it in and having it come to a stop 400,000 kilometers from the ship. From there, measurements of gravitational wavefronts came out with a sphere.”

“A sphere. Glemoor, the only thing that can do that is a black hole.”

“A very big black hole. Not as big as our galactic black hole, of course, otherwise we wouldn’t be standing here discussing it. That sphere measures over 500 kilometers around.”

“That would mean it’s nearly nine times more massive than a standard stellar black hole, and much too massive for a neutron star. But you said gamma rays. Your probe still sees them, and they’re fluctuating. They’re not constant. That would be consistent with a neutron star accreting matter at variable rates. A black hole can’t emit gamma rays.”

“Not in and of itself, Captain, no, especially if it’s static. But I don’t believe this is. I think the central mass is still spinning, very quickly. Anything falling in will release energy before reaching the event horizon. I believe that accounts for those gamma ray bursts we’re reading. Plus, there’s no localized magnetic field. Astronomical black holes have no magnetic fields.”

“But a black hole?
Here?”

“It would seem to be the case, Captain. There are precedents, of course. The black hole at the center of the Messier 87 galaxy, and one at the center of ours.”

“But this is a nebula cluster, not a galaxy.”

“Technically, this is a hypernova, the end result of a chain reaction of ordinary supernovae. There’s a tremendous lot of matter and gas out there.”

Garrett chewed on her lower lip. “All right. Let’s say that’s true. Would gamma rays account for the sensor ghosts?”

“Possibly. Gamma rays combining with ionized plasma might mimic ionized plasma vented from a ship. But, Captain, nebulae contain helium. They have hydrogen. Nitrogen. Noble gases. Nebulae do not contain arkenium duranide, or ferrocarbonite. Captain, these are materials used in construction.”

She’d known that, but she’d refused to believe it, hoping the readings were wrong.
Trust yourself, Captain.
“Used for plasma injectors.”

“Yes, Captain, just so,” said Glemoor.

“For a warp core.” There was a pause as Garrett digested what she’d just said. Then she turned to look out at the fierce, stormy beauty of the Draavids.

“Oh, dear God,” she said. “There’s a ship out there.”

They’d been at yellow alert for fifteen minutes and Garrett was clenching her teeth so hard her jaw hurt. “Anything?”

Darco Bulast looked as tense as his captain. “Negative. If there’s a vessel, it’s not sending out a general distress, and there’s no response to hails.”

“Unless there’s just too much interference,” said Bat-Levi, looking up from her sensor display at her position alongside the science station. She blew an errant strand of her long black hair out of her eyes then hooked a lock behind her right ear. “There could be a signal, but we’d never hear it, not unless we get closer.”

“What’s our status?” asked Garrett. “Can we do that?”

“Right now, our shields are holding just fine, Captain. When we crossed into the nebulae cluster proper, radiation levels outside the ship jumped by a factor of five. Still within tolerance limits, presuming our shields hold. We’re holding position at 35,000 kilometers from the nebulae’s edge. But I’m not sure that another ship—likely disabled and running on battery power—would have the shields to last very long, not in that radioactive soup out there.”

“If there even
is
a ship,” said Castillo in an undertone.

Garrett’s head swiveled his way. “Care to share, Mr. Castillo?”

Castillo reddened. “No disrespect intended, Captain, but there’s every possibility that there was a ship but isn’t now.”

“Not necessarily, Ensign,” Glemoor interjected from his station next to Castillo. “If we can trust our scans, there’s insufficient debris, and nothing organic. If we presume a ship disintegrated, then there ought to be a debris field equivalent to the mass destroyed and some evidence of organic residua.”

“Then where
are
they?” asked Bat-Levi. “For that matter, why duck into a nebula to begin with?”

“Maybe they were running away
from
someone,” Castillo offered.

Garrett reflected that Castillo might need to learn to hold his tongue, but he clearly knew a good idea when he had one. “An interesting hypothesis, Ensign. But how do you account for the levels of ferrocarbonite and duranide we’ve found?”

“What if the core didn’t breach? What if they
ejected
their warp core?”

“Why would they do that?” asked Bat-Levi. “Without a core, they don’t have power for very long, and without power, they’ll fry. If the gamma radiation doesn’t get them, those protostars will.”

“Maybe this was the only choice they had,” said Castillo. “You just said it. You don’t go into nebulae like this unless you’re forced to, and if you’re forced to, probably someone’s shooting at you. So, maybe their warp core got damaged. A coolant leak, I don’t know. So they have a choice. Either jettison the core, or blow up.”

“So they jettison the core to buy time.” Propping her right elbow on the arm of her command chair, Garrett ran the side of her right thumb along her lips in thought. “Well, a crummy choice is better than none. It’s a decent hypothesis, Ensign. Very good,” she said, flashing Castillo a quick smile and noting, with satisfaction, his flush of pleasure.
Trust your crew.
“Glemoor?”

“Those sensor ghosts might be distortions of the signature from a real ship. Except if Ensign Castillo is correct, then either this ship went very far into the nebula before ejecting its core ...”

“Or they didn’t, but are being dragged toward that black hole. Any way to tell for certain?”

“If there’s a ship? Not without a signal of some kind. Or,” Glemoor paused then said, “or we go deeper into the field ourselves.”

“But we already know where to start. The first probe was, what? 600,000 kilometers in? So how about following the trail of the sensor ghosts, narrowing down our search pattern?”

Bat-Levi thought a moment. “I could extrapolate backward. Say, factor in the amount of material we’ve already found and then, on that basis, calculate how large the warp core would have to be in order to generate the debris field we’ve got. I’d have to take drift into account from the Herbig-Haro jets, though. They might have blown the debris out, not in. No matter which way you cut it, it’ll take awhile.”

Something about what Bat-Levi had just said niggled at the back of Garrett’s brain. She sensed an idea forming but couldn’t quite put it into words. Something a ship might do if it were in trouble, in a nebula with protostars, and no way to blast free ...

“Pardon, Captain,” Ensign Castillo again, “but that’s kind of inefficient. Why not narrow things down by the rate at which those gas globules are collapsing along gravitational fields? We can assume that the components left over from a warp core breach or ejection ought to follow the same path. Save time.”

“Do it,” said Garrett, shoving the nascent thought to the back of her brain.
Let it simmer awhile.
“Find me a focus. And, Castillo, can you move the probe in further without its being trapped in that gravitational well?”

“To gather more data? Sure, but ...”

Garrett waved the rest of his remark away. “No, no, not more data. I want to use the probe as a proximity detector. A kind of advanced scout. With all this interference, we let that probe get out too far ahead of us, and we might as well be trying to listen to something being transmitted between two tin cans on a string.”

Glemoor frowned. “Tin cans?”

“I’ll explain it later. But this way, we move closer without endangering the ship without good cause. Let the probe do the searching for us. Can you do it, Castillo?”

“Sure. But, Captain, the closer the probe gets, the more its signal will be subtended and distorted by gravity. I’m not sure how accurate the signal will be.”

“Understood.” Garrett punched a channel for engineering. “Mr. Kodell.”

“Here, Captain.”

“We’re heading deeper into the nebula. There may be a ship in trouble out there. How long can we stay before we get into trouble ourselves?”

“Depends. With shields at maximum, and us doing nothing but looking, probably three hours, maybe four. But if you have to expend more energy in a rescue—using the tractor beams, for example—then it depends on how far for how long. The bigger the ship, the more we’ll cut into our energy reserves. We won’t even talk about the engines.”

“No, let’s not. If we find a ship, can we use transporters instead?”

“If we can get close enough, maybe. There’s a lot of interference. Personally, I wouldn’t want to be the one caught in a transporter beam trying to get from A to B.”

“Understood.” Garrett toggled off. “Castillo, you ready?”

“Absolutely, Captain. Course?”

“That depends on Commander Bat-Levi.” Garrett turned her chair to face her acting XO. “Anything?”

“Yes, Captain.” Bat-Levi ineffectually brushed at her hair then seemed to give it up. “Routing information to the helm now.”

“All right, Mr. Castillo, take the probe in, match course and speed to maintain a distance of 6,000 kilometers between the probe and us. Take the probe in at 1,000-kilometer increments, nice and slow. Find me a ship, if there is one.”

After thirty minutes, Bulast sang out, “Proximity alarm! I’ve got something, Captain!”

Garrett came out of her slouch. “On speaker.”

A moment later, the bridge was awash with the sizzle of static. No one spoke. Garrett listened intently, closing her eyes to block out extraneous stimulation. “I don’t hear anything.”

Bulast put up a cautionary finger. “Wait. Let me filter the high end.”

He did and, an instant later, Garrett heard it: a steady pip, like the blipping of an ancient oscilloscope.

“Sounds like a distress beacon,” said Castillo.

“But not Starfleet,” said Garrett. “Bulast?”

“Matching beacon now with known Federation registry.” He shook his head. “Not one of ours.”

“But it’s somebody,” said Bat-Levi.

“Or was,” said Garrett. “Anything remotely resembling a ship out there?”

“Scanning, Captain. Negative. Nothing that looks like a ship, or even pieces of one.”

“Too far away,” said Glemoor, more to himself than Garrett. Before she could ask, he said, “It’s too far away, Captain. We found evidence of a warp core much further away. So how did the beacon get
here, closer
to us?”

“Maybe they launched it before they ejected the core,” said Castillo.

Garrett shook her head. “That’s not what I would do. Glemoor’s right. Too much distance. You don’t send out a distress call
before
you have an emergency.”

“Unless they were in distress before they had to jettison the core,” said Bat-Levi. “Maybe they were under attack, like Castillo said.”

Garrett drummed the fingers of her right hand on the arm of her command chair. “Then why not send out a general distress call
before
you go into the nebula? With all this interference, it’d be a miracle for anyone to pick up the signal.
We
didn’t, and we were sitting right on the edge. No, we’re missing something. Castillo, where is that beacon? How distant?”

“Six thousand,” said Castillo, and stopped.

“Mr. Castillo?”

“One moment, Captain,” said Castillo. His fingers recalibrated his instruments. “Captain, it
was
6,000 kilometers distant from the probe.”

“Was? It’s falling toward the black hole?”

“No, ma’am.” A queer half-smile played over Castillo’s lips. “Reading five-nine-eight-nine kilometers. Eight-six. Eight-
three
.”

“Moving
closer
,” said Bat-Levi. “But how ... ?”

“I know,” Castillo blurted out. He colored as all eyes turned toward him.

“What?”
said Garrett impatiently.

Castillo jerked his head in a quick nod. “Captain, if you found traces of warp core near the black hole, how did the beacon get way out here? Granted, the beacon probably had enough speed to go some distance, but it’s got limited fuel. So there’s no way a beacon could get far enough away
not
to end up falling
back
toward the event horizon. But this beacon’s not even
close,
it’s at a
right angle
to the event horizon, and it’s getting
closer.
The only way that can happen is if something
pushed
it here and ...”

“And something’s
still
pushing it.” Bat-Levi’s eyes went round. “He’s right.”

At the same time, Garrett knew what it was she’d sensed before but not been able to put words to. “Of course! It’s riding on a jet of ionized plasma, on one of those Herbig-Haros! The beacon’s moving
away
from the black hole because it was launched
while
the ship rode a jet. If I’d lost my engines, or only had impulse power, that’s what I would do. Ride the jet like a hawk on a thermal.”

“That has to be it, Captain,” said Glemoor. “Whoever was here ...
is
here understood that the only way to avoid being sucked past the event horizon would be if he could ride a jet of ionized plasma, and that’s why the beacon is moving at a right angle to the black hole.”

“But where’s the ship?” asked Bat-Levi.

Glemoor pulled at a frill. “Captain, we extrapolated this course on the basis of following the gravitational collapse of gas globules back into those protostars. Now, those globules are very dense, and that’s why they’re falling back. Well, a
ship
is much denser than a beacon, so ...”

“So they’re falling back in,” said Garrett. “Not toward the black hole but right into a protostar. They won’t be crushed. They’ll burn up.”

“Presuming they haven’t already,” said Glemoor.

“Anything on long-range sensors?”

Glemoor consulted his instruments. “Possibly, Captain. A moment,” Glemoor’s slender fingers moved to coax a better resolution from the ship’s long-range sensors. “I think there’s something, Captain. Deeper in the nebula.”

“Is it a ship?”

Glemoor hesitated then shook his head. “Impossible to say, Captain. There’s too much interference. It is, however, moving away from us.”

“Falling back,” murmured Bat-Levi.

“Not if we can help it,” said Garrett. Her mind darted over the possibilities, though she knew there was, in the end, only one decision she could make.

“Bat-Levi, contact sickbay. Inform Dr. Stern to prepare to receive casualties. Then let Mr. Kodell know we’re likely to need all the power he can spare to the shields. All right, Mr. Castillo, plot a course for those sensor ghosts, best guess.”

“Aye, Captain. I’ll extrapolate back from the distress beacon ... course plotted and laid in.”

“Go.” Garrett’s hands clutched the arms of her command chair. “Mr. Bulast, continuous hails.”

“You’ve got them, Captain.”

And now we wait.
Garrett tried to think of anything she’d forgotten, and decided that she’d done everything she could. Whatever happened next depended upon time and luck. Mainly luck.

At his station, alongside Castillo, Glemoor drew in a sharp breath of surprise.

Garrett was instantly alert. “Glemoor?”

“I think I’ve got them, Captain.” The Naxeran’s normally calm voice was tight with tension.

Garrett was out of her chair and by Glemoor’s side in an instant. “A ship?”