Return to Valjiir Stories
Return to Valjiir Continum
Official MISSION Log, HTE ship High Stakes, Entry One, Christy Chas reporting. Our instructions from Admiral Brezshnova specified that these entries should be made daily at least, and here it is five days out from Sol, and I'm doing the first log entry. Mok refuses to do them even though he's nominally the captain of the ship. . . since it's his ship, and no one else except me, Saran, and M'rray bothered to go through the Admiral's instructions. Saran suggested that the three of us take turns, but M'rray says he feels no loyalty to Starfleet and he doesn't like Terrans much anyway. I've for nothing better to do since Mok won't let me play around with his ship, so I agreed to have a go at it. So you'll be just hearing from me and Wondergreen. And don't expect dailies.
In fact, the only reason I got around to doing one today is that there's been a slight little change of plan that you probably should know about, dear Admiral. We were still less than halfway to Aleph Corriandus and most of us were bored silly, and early one morning Saran picked up some old style radio (!) signals from an unexplored system just a few parsecs off our course. So we had a mutiny about it this afternoon, since Saran wanted to go check it out and Mok didn't want to take the time (Mok's been in a foul mood. Kila says he hasn't wanted to do much of anything lately) and since you, dear Admiral, didn't bother to put anyone in charge, we had to decide by committee...
The cargo hold of the Haven Trading Empire ship High Stakes had been converted into a combination transporter-and-conference room. It was the only room on the little ship big enough to hold all eight passengers, though Christy had some ideas about combining a couple of others. The cargo had all been removed to outside the ship, attached in clusters of cargo pods everywhere but on the twin warp engines. From the outside, the High Stakes had taken on the appearance of a demented metal raspberry. With legs.
Eontril Plad had made it a point to get to the meeting before anyone else, and claimed the most comfortable chair for himself. ("I'm a reformed artist," he explained to Christy's dirty look. "I'm through suffering.") M'rray squeezed himself into the largest chair he could find – none of them had been built for Caitians – and gave his usual annoyed snarl. The others arranged themselves around the conference table, except for Kila who sat on the floor against one bulkhead and didn't even try not to look bored.
Bek Mokkalian, owner and operator of the High Stakes, was the last to arrive. It was a point of honor. It was his boat, and they could all damn well wait for him if he wanted them to.
"Why so glum, Mok?" Eontril asked as he came in. "You don't look too well."
Mok grunted at him. "Don't disturb the deceased," he answered. "It's not polite."
"He's got a hangover," Kila explained from the corner.
"What, again?"
Kila shook her head. "Still."
Mok dropped himself into the remaining chair. "Let's get this over with, so I can rest in peace. Our young green friend has found some radio signals - that's right Tharas, radio - coming from a star system we're gonna pass within a few dozen parsecs. Of. His Vulcan curiosity has become tumescent, and the only way it can be satisfied in a suitable climax is for us to submit fully to the whims of his intellectual id." Eontril and Rian both looked confused, Christy started laughing, and Saran cleared his throat disapprovingly.
"What our captain is trying not to say," Saran clarified, "is that we have discovered evidence of a highly unusual culture, and I informed him that it would be in the interest of our mission to investigate."
Tharas Baadell tapped the table to get the Vulcan's attention. "There are any number of unusual cultures dotted throughout the galaxy. Several are represented here." He glanced meaningfully at Rian. "I fail to see how the additional knowledge of yet one more would especially help us. For that matter, what's so unusual about this one in particular?"
"Many cultures have developed radio," M'rray agreed.
Saran nodded. "It is not merely the radio signals themselves, although since most cultures tend to pass through radio into subspace communication in a matter of only a few centuries it is an unlikely coincidence that we would just happen to have discovered them at this stage. Rather, the truly unusual aspect is the degree of radio usage. The source of the signals is very jumbled and diffuse, yet very intense. The race has obviously spread throughout its entire solar system, colonized it thoroughly, most likely inhabiting every rock and niche large enough to stand on, and probably building large artificial colonies as well. And yet there is no subspace activity at all. None. They have progressed quite far, filling their home system more completely than any race of which I'm aware, and yet failed to develop warp capabilities which would allow them to expand to nearby systems to relieve some of their population pressure."
"Long-winded, isn't he?" Mok asked no one in particular.
"I still can't see any reason to go there," Tharas argued. "We have a very specific contract - to look into the evidence uncovered by the Enterprise that the Seeders are real. And still around. This doesn't help us do that."
"There's more to our mission that that," Rian said quietly. Everyone turned to face the Antari, and she closed her huge, violet eyes and took a deep breath. "The Seeders that the Enterprise met - "
"We don't know for sure that they were really Seeders," Tharas objected.
Rian stared down at the table. Eontril almost spat. "Let the lady make her point," he said.
She gave a little smile at him in acknowledgement. "They said they desperately wanted the Federation to repeal the Prime Directive, to begin to interfere in the affairs of other races." She looked up at Saran. "If what you're saying is true, this race must be technologically stagnant. And they must have been so for quite some time."
Saran nodded in agreement. "If they remain stagnant," he said, "they will quickly begin to exhaust their system's resources and cultivatable areas, if they haven't done so already. They will begin starving to death by the billions."
"If ever a race needed to be interfered with," Rian went on, "we have perhaps found it. Part of our mission is to make a recommendation concerning the Prime Directive. This looks like a good place to begin looking into that."
"Aleph Corriandus," Saran concluded, "is home to a normally developing, if primitive, race. This race seems to be not developing at all, let alone normally. There seems to be more to learn from the abnormal, than from the normal, about which we already have a great deal of data. And finally, I'm certain that had Admiral Brezshnova known about this culture, she would have included it on our list of places to investigate."
Eontril scowled. "As much as I agree, with both of you, there's an unstated assumption here, that ‘advancement' must be technological. Could they not have a very sophisticated spirituality or philosophy? Perhaps their technology is - well, stagnated, if you want to use that term - simply because their energy is going in other directions?"
"Certainly a possibility," Saran agreed. "In which case, would it not be to our benefit to learn from them? Is not the purpose of the Prime Directive exactly to allow advancement in precisely such areas, so that all of the galaxy might benefit in ways we cannot even imagine? And if that is the case, then their technological backwardness - and the danger that presents for their survival - is all the more tragic, for it could rob hundreds of other races of their possible gifts."
Tharas still looked unconvinced. "But suppose you're wrong, on all counts. Maybe they haven't used warp or subspace simply because they don't want to. Maybe they have some other, unknown technology which allows them to maintain exactly the level of development and expansion they want. Maybe they are in absolutely no danger of any sort, and interfering with them is utterly the last thing the Federation should do."
"Again, yes, that is a possibility," Saran allowed. "And again, if so, that, too, is something we should know. Our mission is not to prove the Prime Directive should be repealed. It is to provide whatever applicable data we find, in whatever direction that data points. If the beings who claimed to be Seeders were wrong, then Admiral Brezshnova needs to know that, before she makes a recommendation to the contrary." Saran looked around the table. "I see no compelling argument against going there, and every argument we do have insists we must."
"What nobody's mentioning," Mok pointed out, "what no one seems to care about, is the fact that little detours like this serve only to postpone the day on which I get the use of my boat back."
"Ease up, Mok," Kila said. "They don't feel sorry for you at all."
"Whose side are you on?"
Kila shrugged and went back to looking bored.
In the end, only Mok and M'rray continued to resist the idea. Even Tharas reluctantly agreed that Saran was probably right. Kila, of course, couldn't quite generate enough enthusiasm even to abstain.
Mission Log, HTE High Stakes, entry two, Saran Qildraktdthrum reporting. Contents: preliminary astrophysical findings on previously unexplored star system UFP catalog number Kappa Omicron 997.
We are currently approaching said system from directly above the plan of its ecliptic and so shall not pass close to any inhabited body. Its Oort cloud is typically sparse, and seems to still possess no colonies. All indigenous radio sources we have located so far are within ten million kilometers of the average ecliptic plane of its major planets. We should be approach to approach as close as forty million kilometers of any inhabited body with an acceptably small risk of detection - closer, if we find evidence of only primitive or non-existent sensor technology, which seems likely . . . .
. . . . we have so far detected eleven planetary bodies with fifty-seven major moons orbiting them, along with a sparse asteroid belt consisting of an estimated three thousand two hundred forty seven bodies larger than one half kilometer in diameter, and an outer Kuiper belt of ice worlds some four hundred of which are larger than ten kilometers. We have also so far isolated no less than eight thousand separate and distinct radio sources - that is, radio waves are emanating from at least that many separate bodies, most of which objects must be artificial, and all of which are too large to be conventional spacecraft, and must therefore be colonies or settlements of some kind.
In addition. . .
Saran's dictation of his report was interrupted by the doorway to the bridge bursting open. The bridge had originally been designed for only one occupant, and with the second chair squeezed in, along with some extra navigation and sensor equipment, there was barely enough room to slip in and out. Nevertheless, Christ threw her small, supple body in, nearly knocking Mok out of his seat.
"Hey, Wondergreen!" she said, spinning about to grab Saran's sleeve, "you've got to come see this!"
"I am trying to record a report - " Saran began.
"And I'm trying to maintain control of the ship," Mok reprimanded. "If you want to practice gymnastics - "
"They've got needles!" Christy enthused.
"They've got what?" Saran asked.
Mok was already out of his seat, having set the High Stakes on auto, and was sprinting down the short hallway behind the bridge.
"Needles!" Christy elaborated, and she pulled Saran out through the door and followed Mok. Saran proceeded at a more dignified pace, to the end of the hall, then up a short ladder and through a hatch. Several of the newly-installed pods on the exterior of the High Stakes contained various scientific instruments and small laboratories. This one was the main sensor pod, whose instruments were more sensitive - and therefore, more bulky - than those that would fit onto the bridge. The pod was also somewhat roomier than the bridge, and Saran found Mok, Christy, and the Andorian, Tharas, already there.
Christy was pointing at a display screen set on full magnification. It showed a single large object - perhaps two hundred meters in diameter - surrounded by a cluster of smaller objects. From Christy's excited speech, Saran eventually gathered that she identified the smaller objects as "needles".
Saran shook his head. Miniscule one-passenger craft, basically an impulse engine with a cockpit, minimal sensors, no safety systems, notoriously unreliable life-support systems - often no life-support at all, relying on moderate shielding and insulation to maintain livable conditions within the tiny cockpit for a half-hour or so. Capable of speeds close to that of light, but not warp speeds. Very dangerous and unreliable. Highly illegal throughout Federation space. A favorite plaything of youngsters on many systems, including Terra. Christy, in fact, had brought hers along, and it was docked to another of the High Stakes' hatchways.
"Why do you think they are needles?" Saran asked.
"Look at ‘em!" Christy responded. "Buzzing around like a swarm of bees. See those two? That's a classic racing maneuver - a little clumsily done, but it's a classic."
Saran considered. They certainly did not seem to be engaged in any useful or sensible activity, therefore it was not impossible that what they were doing could be recreational -
"How likely is it," Tharas asked, "that an alien race, with no contact whatsoever with any Federation race, would also develop needle technology? And what looks like a Clave?"
"Parallel social evolution is not unknown," Saran answered. "In fact, it was the contention of the Science Officer aboard the Enterprise that parallel evolution - both biological and social - is due to direct intervention by the Seeders. Which you would have known, if you had read Admiral Brezshnova's instructions and report."
Tharas shrugged, but didn't look convinced. "Why would the Seeders want them to have needles?"
"Well, anyway," Christy was saying, "this is the perfect way to see them up close! I can take the Ballerina in, and no one would even notice anything strange, except that I'm a lot better than any of them. The Ballerina's even got a bunch of new sensors and a subspace transceiver and a small phaser and all sorts of other neat stuff that Moth - I mean, uh, the Admiral, hung on her before we left."
Mok frowned. "What did you call her?"
Christy took a deep breath, then smiled. "It's a secret," she said, conspiratorially. "'Mother'. Her racing name. She was a needle racer once too, you know."
Mok grinned. "You're kidding!"
"No, really, Back in the dark ages, before any of us were born."
"Holy shit," said Mok.
"It is not a good idea," Saran broke in, "to take a dangerous craft such as a needle into an unexplored star system - "
"Don't be so Vulcan," Christy chided. "It's only fifty-five million kilometers or so to their hive there. I can make it there and back in - less than ten minutes, anyway. Give me a half-hour to poke around, whole trip in less than an hour."
"If your must take your ship -- your needle in, it would be more useful to fly by one of the inhabited worlds -- "
Mok shook his head. "Christy's right. If needles are frowned upon here too, she wants to be with a group of her fellow lawbreakers, not all by her lonesome where the local patrol can get to her. And if they're not illegal -- well, no reason to chance it."
"And I can stay in communication the whole time," she concluded. "And it can't be monitored because these Neanderthals don't have subspace. Okay?"
Saran frowned, but didn't object any more. Out loud.
"Go," said Mok.
Christy went.
"Ballerina to High Stakes. Read me, Mok?"
"Read you fine. What's up?"
"Just checking communications."
"Right. I've got you on my sensors, but I'll lose you pretty soon. Saran's still tracking you from the sensor pod, he should be able to follow you all the way in. And Tharas is filling in the rest of the crew."
"Okay, fine. I'll leave my line open, so if you think of any gems of wisdom, let me know. Otherwise, see you in an hour."
"Hey, Ballerina?"
"Yeah?"
Mok glanced down the hall behind the bridge to make sure no one was within ear shot, and kicked the door closed. "If you make contact, see if you can find any buyers for a few hits of frog."
Christy laughed. "Always the businessman. I've still got a sample along - well, half a sample that Admiral Dearest gave me from your stock."
Bloody thief, Mok thought. "Uh, negative. Don't do it face-to-face. Radio contact only, I'll close the deal myself later. Do not leave your needle on this trip. Saran would never forgive me."
"Please repeat, High Stakes. I missed that last bit."
"I said, do not leave your needle, no direct contact."
"Once more, High Stakes, you're not coming through."
Mok sighed. "At your discretion, Ballerina."
"That's what I thought you said. See you in an hour. "
The bridge door opened again, much more gently this time, and Rian ani Rina came in. Mok had been lounging comfortably at the helm, and at the sight of Rian he sat up straight and tried to smooth his hair.
She was, as were all Antaris, stunning. She was tall and thin and had very long blonde hair - tied into a knot now so as not to get into anyone's way - and had a body that Mok was sure could arouse a statue. Or a corpse. Or a photograph of a statue of a corpse. She was wearing a halter top and very tiny dark pants which nicely showed off her long, golden legs. Mok had heard that on their home world, Antaris usually didn't bother with clothes at all. He wondered how they avoided spending all their time raping each other.
Oh, yeah, he remembered, their males are only semi-sentient. And completely domesticated. Weird race, these Antaris.
"How could you do such a thing?" Rian demanded.
Mok shook his head in confusion. "Practice?" he ventured.
"She's only a child!"
"You mean Kila? She's a lot more educated than you think - "
"I don't mean Kila. And what you do with her is your own - affair." She shuddered. "And I don't know how you can do that with a Klingon, anyway."
"The same way you do it with anyone else, more or less, except - "
"I didn't mean Kila. I meant Christy."
"I never laid a hand on Christy!"
"That's not what I'm talking about," Rian said disgustedly. "How could you let her go off by herself, without knowing anything about the people here or what they'd do to her if they found her, or - "
Mok held up one hand and pushed down a switch on the communications console with the other. "Hey, Ballerina, are you still alive?"
"Sure, you bet," Christy answered.
"She's a big girl now," Mok told Rian.
"What's that, High Stakes?"
"We've just got an hysterical yenta of an Antari up here," Mok explained.
"Tell her she's not my real mother."
Mok released the switch. "Relax," he said to Rian, "we're in semi-constant communication. Worry about something else."
Rian sighed, and slid into the other seat. "It's still not a good idea."
"You're as bad as Young Green," Mok said, but he smiled. "Still, it's good to see you up and about."
Rian looked confused. "What do you mean?"
"You've been moping around ever since we first met in Rhonda - Admiral Brezshnova's office. Like you'd lost your best friend. This little outburst is your first real show of life."
She looked down again. "I'm not really happy," she said. And she looked up. "You haven't been in such a good mood yourself."
"Well, I was drafted. Me and my boat. No, not drafted. Blackmailed. This expedition isn't my idea of how a Free Trader should turn a profit. Our kind and loving Admiral blackmailed me into this."
"What did she do?"
"It's a long and gruesome tale involving illegal drugs and illegal aliens - "
"Kila?"
"Kila. And an old fling back before there was civilization when Rhonda and I used to be friends. Almost. Since then, she's treated me like a leper. Almost. What's your story?"
"I'd really rather not talk about it."
"Oho. Did the Admiral do something nasty on you, too?"
"It wasn't the Admiral, it was the Zehara, and I'd rather not talk about it."
"Hey, you can't arouse my curiosity like that and leave me frustrated and unsatisfied. You can see what that does to a youngster like Saran. It's even worse for a grown man."
"Why were you so against this detour?" Rian asked, not so subtly changing the subject.
Mok shrugged. "I'm not really committed to this project, I guess. I'm a Haven. The Empire hasn't been in the Federation all that long, and I'm a Tory. I don't care if your precious Prime Directive gets repealed or not. It's never affected my actions one way or another anyway. And as for the Seeders - ancient history and the origins of life don't affect my income. I could care less, I suppose, but it isn't worth the effort."
The intercom buzzed. "Yeah," Mok answered it.
"Saran here," the intercom said. "The Ballerina is approaching the cluster of alien vessels. I suggest you establish and maintain verbal contact with Christy throughout the encounter."
"Yes, sir, right away, sir. Excuse me, Rian, duty calls." He activated the subspace transmitter again. "Ballerina, this is High Stakes. Do you read?"
Fifty-five million kilometers in five minutes is only a shade over six per cent of the speed of light. The Ballerina was capable of speeds much faster than that, but Christy saw no reason to push it, nor to waste the fuel that accelerations of that magnitude would use. Besides, she wanted to be inconspicuous. Flashy she could be some other time.
Also, a slower approach would allow the newly installed universal translator aboard to munch on the radio transmissions floating about this system, and maybe enable her to converse with the locals in their own language. The computer quickly told her, however, that there were at least a dozen languages in use, with several major dialects each, and since the pilots of the needles were maintaining radio silence, there was no way to know which of the languages they were using. If any. They might conceivably be using one that no one else was.
The radio silence hadn't surprised her, though. For one thing, a radio unit was just added weight on a needle, and if you could get by without it, you did. In Federation space, of course, you wouldn't want to use a transmitter of any kind anyway, because there was the possibility that the authorities would be able to trace it. There was not yet any way to tell if needles were illegal here, but radio silence was a practical necessity if they were.
As she approached the hive, Christy saw that it was roughly spherical, with dozens of viewports speckled about its surface. There was a series of mechanical lockports ringing its center (no tractor beams!) many of which held needles of various sizes and designs. Unmistakably needles. Long, tapered craft, certainly no more than one person could comfortably fit inside, certainly no room for complex sensors or life support or shields. Very archaic-looking single or double-impulse engines. But most of them held a cluster of objects toward the front end that Christy couldn't quite place, a group of cylindrical tubes parallel to the length of the craft, perhaps a meter long and a centimeter or two in diameter.
The huge sphere of the Hive was slowly rotating, she noticed. Centrifugal gravity? It made sense. If they didn't have warp technology, and they didn't have tractors, they probably wouldn't have A-gravs.
She let the Ballerina drift in as close as she dared, trying to peer into one of the viewports. She was nearer to one of the Hive's poles of rotation than to the equator, so the ports were slowly spinning below her rather than moving past. Due to the "outward" direction of centrifugal gravity, the ports near the sphere's poles would seem from the inside to be on the wall, while those nearer the equator would be on the floor.
Some of the ports were dark, but others were lit - windows into rooms with lights on. She inched toward one of those, still monitoring the radio bands and keeping a watchful eye on the sensor screen. None of the other needles were particularly close to her, although a cluster of four or five had started in her direction.
The subspace receiver came to life. "Ballerina." it said, "this is the High Stakes. Do you read me?"
"Reluctantly," she answered. "Leave me alone. I'm busy. Nothing to report yet. "
"At least describe what you're seeing."
She sighed. "Okay, fine. But right now I*m in the middle of a delicate maneuver, trying to get close to a window that won't keep still on account of this thing spinning."
"Centrifics?"
"Must be. Hey, can Wondergreen hear this?"
"Not right now, but I can rig up a connection to the sensor pod."
"You better do it. He'll never forgive either of us if he hears anything third hand."
"Yeah, okay. It'll take a few minutes and I'll have to disconnect this line to do it. We'll be out of contact for a while. Don't go away."
"Promise. Now shut up and let me get close to the window."
"Right."
She inched in a little more and turned her craft a bit to face the porthole more directly. And got a good, clear look inside.
Definitely a lighted room. And definitely occupied. And definitely not humans.
There were five beings that she could see in the room. Two were very short, no more than a meter in height. The others very tall, at least two-and-a-half meters. One was absurdly skinny, and wore a tight-fitting costume of something that looked like leather. Another tall one was obviously naked and obviously male, had unbelievably huge muscles, and was frighteningly well-endowed. The third giant had at least four arms, all of different lengths, and moving in such a way that they must be either multi-jointed or something approaching tentacles.
One of the short ones was covered in a layer of long, thick fur, so much so that Christy couldn't tell anything more of its body shape - it looked like a huge tribble with eyes. The last one looked very feminine - a nicely proportioned female figure wearing a clingy, sheer garment of many layers in blues and greens that covered without concealing. That one was the most Terran-looking, except for her height - or lack of it - and the fact that her body seemed to be covered in small, downy feathers instead of hair.
They appeared to be having a rather animated discussion, sitting or standing around the room, the small furry one perched on the back of a couch, the tall naked male striding restlessly back and forth, all of them seemingly unaware of her presence.
"Wondergreen'll love this," Christy said, and she poked at the subspace communications console. "Hey, High Stakes, you back on the line yet?" No answer.
She shrugged and glanced at her sensor display. The group of four needles she'd noticed before was getting very close, coming directly toward her.
Should I contact them? she wondered. Run? Show off? Avoid? Proposition? Seduce? She glanced back into the room and shuddered.
Contact right now, she decided, would not be a good idea. It's just too weird. Either there are scads of intelligent races in this one system, which isn't likely, or something's going on that's way over my head.
She pulled the Ballerina back, and headed off away from the approaching group of needles. Let's see if they're really coming to meet me, she thought. I can always outrun them.
And then she discovered the purpose of the clusters of cylinders that the alien needles carried on their front ends.
Saran raised one eyebrow and looked up at the Andorian. "She's under attack," Tharas said simply. He pointed at the screen. "Ballistic projectiles of some type, very small, probably either simple metallic pellets or perhaps chemical explosives."
Saran touched a com switch. "Captain, do you have contact with Ballerina?"
"Not yet, my son. I still don't have your connection - "
"Please establish contact immediately. She is under attack."
"Uh -- " Mok paused. "Can't," he answered, speaking very quickly, "I've got things too torn up. We're going in."
"But the Prime Directive - " Saran objected.
"Screw it. I still haven't taken any Federation loyalty oath, and this is my damn boat. Hold on."
The High Stakes leapt forward so abruptly that the A-grav units couldn't entirely compensate. Saran and Tharas were thrown violently to the floor. The Vulcan struggled back to his feet to continue to monitor the Ballerina's progress on the screen.
The tiny craft had obviously been hit, but it wasn't possible to assess the damage at this distance. It was twisting and weaving back and forth though, trying to avoid incoming missles, so Christy was still alive. The alien needles were between her and the High Stakes, however, so she couldn't come directly back. Instead, she was heading off in another direction, accelerating in fits and starts, toward the system's asteroid belt.
Saran hit the com switch again. Mok wouldn't be able to pick up the Ballerina on his sensors yet, and he needed to know which way to go. "I've got a new heading for you. I believe Christy is trying to make it to the asteroid belt."
The first volley had caught her by surprise. Two of the needles had fired simultaneously, barrages of tiny projectiles of some kind. One barrage was aimed toward the Ballerina's nose, and it destroyed her little phaser mounted there. The other was not quite so accurately aimed, and it only grazed the impulse engine. That was bad enough, though; the Ballerina's controls were responding very sluggishly, the acceleration she needed just wasn't there any more, and the engine's core temperature had started rising alarmingly.
The maneuvering thrusters were still working anyway, and that was the only thing that kept her alive. Using them, she could just barely dodge the volleys of bullets coming at her, and still use what was left of the main impulse engine to try to limp to safety. No more could the Ballerina skip lightly away.
Christy couldn't shake the feeling of having done this before - dodging hostile fire while the Ballerina responded with agonizing slowness. Then she remembered: she had done it before, slipping through the Mars planetary defense web only a few short days ago, just before they'd left on their mission. Only that time, the slowness hadn't been due to the Ballerina being damaged; her own awareness had been sharpened and speeded up by the drug, frog, a half-sample of which she still carried, hidden in her tiny ship.
She bit her tongue and dodged another volley, then viciously stabbed the com unit. "Mok!" she screamed, "where the hell are you?" But subspace remained silent.
She was finally approaching the asteroid belt, and that seemed her only hope. She prayed silently to find an asteroid to use as a shield. That wouldn't be easy, though; it was a pretty sparse belt. The average distance between any two asteroids of appreciable size was on the order of four million kilometers, which meant it wasn't likely she'd just happen across one. She particularly didn't want an inhabited worldlet; if their version of the Clave was defended this well, to venture near a conventional habitation would be suicide.
And what would be the chance of finding an asteroid of reasonable size that wasn't inhabited? According to what she remembered of Saran's survey, the odds were virtually zero.
Okay, she told herself. Think of something else.
The intercom came back to life, and Saran's voice said, "Captain, she's changed directions again, running almost directly away from us. The alien needles are still in pursuit, and are beginning to close her lead."
Directly away? Mok thought. What is she doing? But he said, "Is Tharas still with you?"
"Yes, Mok," came the Andorian's voice.
"You're supposed to be a weapons and tech expert. You know how to reconnect a subspace transmitter?"
"I've worked on a few."
"Then get up here and put this one back together. I'm busy being a pilot. Rian, honey, you'll have to make room for him. Go keep Young Green company. Or better yet, go tell Eontril and M'rray what's going on."
"What about Kila?" Rian asked.
"Kila's probably asleep." Rian rushed off and Mok held down the com switch again. "Saran, have you got any idea where Ballerina's off to?"
"Not currently," came the reply, "but I am attempting to extend her course. It is difficult because she continues to weave about to avoid the projectiles from the alien needle craft. I will keep you informed."
"Do that," Mok muttered, as Tharas entered the bridge.
"What's taking so long to catch them?" Tharas asked.
"I'm still running blind," Mok answered, and waved at the sensor. "Can't pick them out yet. And I can't use the warp engine, not this close to the asteroid belt. Wormholes, you know. We're just under impulse power, and the Stakes hasn't got a very big impulse engine, especially since she's hauling around all this extra mass the good Admiral hung on her."
Tharas nodded and began piecing back together the circuits that Mok had been trying to re-route.
"Captain?" said the intercom.
"My name's Mok, little boy."
"Yes. There is a comet body within four degrees of the Ballerina's projected path - "
"I see it," Mok interrupted, glancing at his sensor screen. And he added, "And I think I can pick out the needles. Yeah. Damn, they're small."
Tharas glanced up from his work. "I thought needles have a limited range."
"They do," Mok answered. "Terran ones, anyway."
"And Christy's?"
"It's been modified. Her range is - well, impressive. For a needle."
"And the aliens?"
Mok shrugged. "Maybe she can outlast them. If she lives that long."
It was a good-sized comet, several hundred kilometers in diameter. This far out from the star, nearly eight hundred million kilometers away, it would still be frozen solid, and had virtually no tail. The tail wouldn't form unless it ventured much closer, and the heat and light pressure from the star could then melt its outer layers and push the once-frozen gasses out behind.
But this particular comet never did get close enough for that. It had a highly eccentric orbit, as most comets do, venturing as far out as the star's Oort cloud, nearly a tenth of a lightyear away. But it never came in any closer than it was now, and then only once in a score of millennia.
Christy had picked it out in an act of desperation, searching for some object - anything - as far from the ecliptic as she thought she could reasonably get to. The needles were still following her. She'd half hoped they'd panic when they dived away from the ecliptic, but they'd held steadfastly on.
She frowned as she glanced at her monitors. The engine was overheating - seriously overheating - and she knew she didn't have much time. It could blow up at any second. But the needles were catching up, and she had to get around that comet, put it between them -
She smiled briefly when she saw the High Stakes crawling onto her shortrange screen from behind. And smiled again when the subspace receiver finally came to life.
"Ballerina," it said, with Tharas' voice, "can you read me?"
"It's goddamn time. I'm about to get an impulse overload, weapons are dead, they're catching up, and I could use some help."
"Yeah, okay," Mok's voice said, "but other than that, how's tricks?"
"Mok, will you do something?"
"I'm trying, Hon. My phaser trackers are having a hard time locking onto those tiny buzzards following you. At least they haven't seen me yet. No, Tharas, not that one! Over on the right! You're the scabbing weapons expert!"
"What's going on there?" Christy asked.
"Just hang on, Kid," Mok answered.
And then, the engine blew.
On the bridge sensor screen, Mok watched the Ballerina come apart, pieces of various sizes flying in every direction, at very close to the speed of light. "Damn!" he said, and pointed. "That largest piece, heading right for the comet. It might be the cockpit. Can we get a tractor on it?"
"Not at our difference in speed," Tharas answered. "If it is the cockpit, we'd crush it."
Mok stabbed the com switch. "Saran! Can you pick out Christy's life readings?"
"Faintly," came the answer. "She will impact the comet in seventeen seconds."
Mok grunted and said, "Full phasers, Tharas, right at the comet, dead center."
"Right. That, we can lock onto."
The phaser blast hit dead on, momentarily fusing the comet's outer surface into a lens. The phaser beam was concentrated even more, into the comet's center, where it focused and instantly vaporized several cubic kilometers of ice and frozen gas. The super-heated gas exploded outward, and the comet burst like a balloon, turning into a rapidly expanding cloud of ice and dust and gas. The remains of the Ballerina sliced through the cloud, and emerged from the other side.
"Saran," Mok said quietly, "get down to the transporter. We'll be in range in a minute or so. See if you can get Christy aboard."
"Yes... Mok."
Saran had detected a second set of life readings, almost incredibly faint. His first duty was to Christy, however, and he'd concern himself with the other mystery when he had the chance. If it was still there.
He hurried to the transporter-and-conference room, and warmed up the mechanism. The transporter was tied into the sensor pod, to use its delicate instruments to scan for the people and objects to bring aboard. He quickly locked onto Christy's faint and fading readings, then used the few seconds while the High Stakes came within range to search for the other source he'd found.
Yes, it was still there, imbedded within one of the last still-frozen pieces of the comet, moving quickly toward the limits of his range.
He brought Christy aboard, quickly noted her condition, and asked Mok via the intercom to send Rian down immediately. Then he paused. Curiosity got the better of him, and he beamed aboard the object causing the other set of life readings.
Mok turned the High Stakes around as soon as Saran told him that Christy was aboard. "Some unfinished business," he told Tharas. "The other needles?" Tharas asked. Mok nodded and quickly opened a com line to Rian's cabin. She was there, with M'rray and Eontril, and he told her to get to the transporter chamber right away.
"And you," Mok finished, glancing at Tharas.
"Me?"
"With a hand phaser. I'm gonna have Saran beam in the pilots of those needles, too." He opened the line back to Saran. "Hey Young Green, you still there?"
"My name is Saran, Mok."
"Sorry. Saran. Listen, you wanted to find out about these people? Here's your chance. Beam aboard the pilots of those four needles. They've already seen the Stakes, they watched us blow up a comet, and they know damn well nobody in their system has the technology to do that. Let's keep them here till we decide what to do with them."
Saran didn't answer for a moment, and Mok said, "Don't tell me you're not gonna let your curiosity get the better of you."
"I am merely uncertain of my ability to subdue possibly hostile aliens of unknown capabilities..."
"Your captain thinks of everything, uh, Saran. Our Andorian arsenal is on his way down there."
Tharas nodded and quickly left the bridge.