Star Trek: Discovery: Fear Itself Read online

  Saru saw what was coming. “Violence will not change the facts. You cannot coerce reality into re-forming itself to your needs with a destructive act.”

  “So ending your life would make no difference?” Madoh’s voice dropped to a low, threatening register.

  “It would not,” he managed, tensing his muscles. Saru’s threat ganglia stirred at the back of his skull, and it took a physical effort to stop them from emerging. He did not want to give the Gorlan the satisfaction of knowing how afraid he was.

  “We can’t shoot our way through this, Madoh,” said Kijoh. “Haven’t you realized that yet?”

  “Then what should we do?” Madoh’s hand dropped away from his weapon and he snarled at the other Gorlan. “You and the alien here have more intellect than I, so please . . . educate me.”

  “You are frustrated,” began Saru. “And that expresses itself in anger. I know how that feels.”

  “You do?” Madoh cocked his head, his tone half-amused, half-insulting.

  Saru went on. “It accomplishes nothing.”

  “I disagree.” Madoh’s words became icy cold. “Violence stole my home from me. Threats drove me onto this rusting, Creator-forsaken hulk. Those things have worked well against me, so now I see no fault in directing the same toward others.”

  “You are so desperate that you would kill another sentient being.” Saru made it a statement, not a question, but Madoh took it as the latter.

  “Yes!” he retorted. “If that is the act that must be committed, I will not shrink from it, no matter what words you use to bar the way. I will do what must be done to ensure the survival of our colony and our—” Madoh’s rage almost carried him to the end of the sentence, but he caught himself in time and clamped his jaw shut.

  It was the second time that Saru had witnessed one of the Gorlans trying to conceal something, and his eyes narrowed as he pieced together what those silenced words might be. He remembered what the translation matrix had rendered out of the voices he captured after first encountering the Gorlans. What was it they had spoken of? What was the name?

  “The hub.” Saru drew up the words and spoke them quietly, but the response from the Gorlans was as if they had been hit by an electric shock. Madoh actually flinched, reacting like he had suffered a physical blow.

  At his side, Kijoh gave Saru a long and measuring look. “The alien needs to know. If we want any of them to understand how important it is . . . to know why we are so desperate to act . . . we must show him.”

  Madoh’s bellicose behavior had shifted in an instant, to a more reverent manner. “Outworlders are not permitted to approach the hub.”

  “These are extreme times,” said Kijoh, spreading all four of her hands. “The old strictures count for nothing.”

  Saru was aware that every Gorlan on the command deck was staring at him, and he felt more threatened than he had since first boarding the Peliar ship.

  Slowly, Madoh’s simmering anger returned. “Very well.” He beckoned the Kelpien toward him. “You want to see? To know us? Then follow.”

  Saru cautiously walked after the red-band, with Kijoh trailing a step behind him. A cold sense of foreboding made his skin prickle. He knew that in speaking those words, he had crossed a line with the Gorlans that could never be taken back.

  • • •

  It had been hard work, hauling the isophotonic emitter unit up from the Shenzhou’s engineering decks to the analysis lab on her own, with only one semifunctional antigrav, but with all the starship’s technicians engaged in repairs, there was no other way to carry the rig. She managed it, though, keeping out of the way as Johar’s people tried their best to put the starship’s warp drive back together.

  They were fighting an uphill battle. The surprise attack from the Peliar ship’s particle weapons had destroyed a key component of the warp field coil, something called an “axis control” that Burnham recalled vaguely from her elective classes in space-warp theory. Without it, the Shenzhou’s warp bubble would become unstable when it tried to exceed the speed of light, with catastrophic results. The engineers were in the process of fabricating a replacement, but the component was extremely intricate and would take days to manufacture.

  Days of traveling at impulse power. In the infinite void of space, even that incredible velocity was glacially slow. At such a rate, it would take decades to reach the current endpoint of the freighter’s ion trail, and the Peliar ship was still moving away from them.

  Burnham considered the thought with clinical logic and then discarded it. There was no point dwelling on a problem that she could not fix. Instead, she would focus on a matter she could solve.

  She set up the isophotonic rig around the opened spaceframe of the monitor buoy they had recovered days earlier, and aimed the emitter head at the solid-state memory bank inside. The buoy’s data storage device was corrupted by the backwash of whatever energy shock had struck it, and to most observers, that would have been evidence enough that it had been wiped clean.

  But digital information never really went away, and inside complex storage systems like the duotronic components of the buoy, the phantom imprint of the data was still there. Pieces of it, jumbled together, but perhaps still readable. Burnham imagined her well-thumbed copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, but with the paper book’s pages cut up, shredded, and tossed into a pile. The data in the damaged memory bank was the same, a découpe of broken pieces that she might be able to reassemble, given time.

  “The key,” she said out loud, “is to look at things with different eyes.” The emitter threw a beam into the metallic-crystal structure of the memory module and Burnham pulled up a real-time display on a nearby monitor. As the beam sought out and bounced back off tiny fragments of intact code, they flashed up on the screen. If enough of them were intact, it was possible that she might be able to reconstruct the last few seconds of the buoy’s operational life.

  Hours passed in a blur, and Burnham was drawn into the slow action of the scanner device, watching it assemble vague shapes and half-formed images by raking through the digital ashes of the damaged memory.

  She was so intent on the screen that it took her a moment to notice that the door had hissed open behind her.

  Captain Georgiou entered the compartment with a purposeful stride, but her gait slowed as she caught sight of the jury-rigged engineering tool Burnham had set up in the lab. “Michael, whatever are you doing with this?”

  “A lightbulb went off, Captain,” she said, making a vague shape over her head. “I was in Saru’s cabin, and it came to me from out of nowhere.” She pointed at the monitor. “We’re looking at this the wrong way, like peering into a room through a tiny hole in the wall. But if we adjust the spectrum of perception, suddenly there’s no wall in the way. And all the pieces are laid out in front of us. Before, we couldn’t even see the pieces.”

  “Yes, about Saru,” said Georgiou, pulling on the conversation before Burnham could lead it away. “Your report to Commander ch’Theloh on what you learned from his quarters was, shall we say, rather brisk?”

  Burnham faltered. “Yes, Captain. I guess it was, I’m sorry. I was just distracted.” She paused, considering. “And to be honest, I thought that terse and snappy was his entire thing.”

  “Sonny likes it when he’s terse and snappy,” Georgiou allowed, using the diminutive for the XO’s first name that only she could get away with. “Junior officers? Not so much. He expressed concern that you might not be wholly objective when it came to Lieutenant Saru’s mental state.”

  She stopped and raised an eyebrow. “Captain, if the first officer is intimating that my relationship with Saru is anything other than professional—”

  Georgiou chuckled. “It’s not that at all. You two quarrel like troublesome siblings.” The smile faded. “And sometimes siblings cover for each other.”

  Burnham framed her reply. “You know me better than that, Captain.”

  “I do,” she admitted. “Sonny is a good exe
c, but sometimes he sees problems that aren’t there. He’s more like our Kelpien lieutenant in that way than he’d probably like to admit.” The captain paused. “I just want to hear you tell me what you really think Saru was doing on that ship.”

  “Saru isn’t unbalanced. He isn’t under any kind of malign influence. I don’t think it is stress or anything like that.” Burnham took a breath. “I believe he’s just trying to do what he has always tried to do: the right thing. He strives to be a better Starfleet officer, and uphold the same oaths and ideals we all do. But that may get him killed.”

  “That’s the risk that comes with the job,” said Georgiou, reaching up to trace the arc of the delta shield on the breast of her uniform. “But it’s one we’re supposed to share, not carry alone.”

  Was that directed at me, or at Saru? Burnham was still weighing the question when an alert chime sounded from the computer, drawing the attention of both women. Her pulse jumped at the possibility. If she was right, if this had actually worked . . .

  The captain came closer, peering at the flickering image on the screen. “What are we looking at here?”

  The display was messy and full of disruption artifacts, but it was discernible as a visual feed from one of the monitor buoy’s sensor masts. There was only a half second or so of material that could be considered usable, but Burnham’s unorthodox recovery process had definitely caught something.

  “Let me try to compensate for the visual distortion.” She ran the imagery through a software filter to sharpen it up, but it did little to help. The footage appeared to show a smooth-edged, regular object crossing the edge of the buoy’s locked visual field. Then the object seemed to change shape, compacting its long axis and then expanding in diameter. Radiation effects grew as the images replayed until a whiteout smothered everything, and the playback started again.

  Georgiou shook her head, looking at the other data streams from the memory bank. “This doesn’t help. If we had readings from the mass spectrometer, gravity sensor, particle counter, anything, it would help to interpret what we’re looking at.”

  “It’s not a piece of debris, a comet, or an asteroid,” said Burnham. “Look. It very distinctly changes aspect and course.” She slowed down the footage.

  “That’s why it appears to alter its shape,” said the captain, reasoning it out. “It’s an artificial construct. A ship. And it’s turning.” Georgiou made a motion in the air with the flat of her hand, like a vessel moving through space. “Turning toward the buoy, coming at it head-on.”

  “That’s an attack posture.”

  “Yes, it is.” Georgiou’s expression became grim.

  “Computer?” Burnham leaned close to the touch-sensitive screen and used her finger to highlight the object on the display.

  “Working,” came the synthetic reply.

  “Analyze this shape and extrapolate a complete form for it, based on available data. Then project a three-dimensional holographic model of the findings.”

  “Stand by.”

  “If the buoy was deliberately destroyed, that throws up a whole other set of problems for us,” said the captain. “Not the least of which is, could the Shenzhou be in danger as well?”

  Burnham nodded, unwilling to give voice to the answer she suspected was about to be confirmed.

  “Rendering complete.”

  A shadow appeared in midair over the computer console, a long and tapering form that resembled polished black stone. Burnham reached for it, and haptic sensors responded, allowing her to turn the object around in her hands. The shape had a cross-section like an elongated diamond, thick at one end, coming to a sharp point at the other. It instantly suggested the shape of a blade, a weapon. Burnham thought of the ink-dark hologram she had encountered in Saru’s quarters and suppressed a shudder.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Georgiou asked.

  “Computer,” Burnham went on. “Generate a holographic model of a Tholian spinner-type starship, match scale with unknown object, and display.”

  “Working.” A second image, this one a metallic-crystalline form that was all edges and implied threat, materialized next to the shadow. The similarity in mass and shape was obvious.

  “Computer, what is the probability that the unknown object is a match for the vessel?” said Georgiou.

  “Probability estimated at 84.3 percent.”

  “The Tholian Assembly took out the monitor, and they did it in a way so we wouldn’t know it was them.” Burnham laid out the plain facts of it. “Saru was right all along.”

  “We need to contact Starfleet Command. If the Tholians are on the move again, if they’re testing our resolve, this could be the precursor to an expansion of their borders. We have to be cautious and—” Georgiou was cut off as a warning tone sounded over the Shenzhou’s intercom system. “What now?”

  “All hands, yellow alert,” called the first officer’s voice. “Captain report to the bridge.”

  Burnham and Georgiou exchanged a grave look as the captain crossed to the intercom panel. “Report, Number One.”

  “Long-range sensors have picked up a large vessel on an intercept course,” said the Andorian. “It will be within weapons range in nine minutes.”

  Georgiou looked away. “Is it Tholian?”

  “Unknown. But whatever it is, it’s coming in fast.”

  8

  * * *

  When they reentered the cargo modules, Saru sensed immediately that something had changed.

  Before, the prickle of the Gorlan sensory fields had washed over him like the current of a river, moving about the Kelpien as if he were a stone in their path around which they had to flow. Now it was different. The auras were shaded toward more subtle nuance and finer detail. There was less of the brute-force emotional content he had sensed before, and in its place there was a kind of strange anticipatory air. Like the world around me is holding its breath, he thought.

  Saru frowned, walking slowly to keep pace with Vetch and the others, thinking back to what he had said before to Captain Georgiou about the Gorlan aura-field. It was difficult to put it into words for a being who had never experienced such a thing. How would one explain colors to someone whose eyes could only perceive in monochrome? Saru could think of it as music, or as the rush of wind through trees. An effect that lay beneath everything, on which dialogue and unity could rise or fall.

  The Gorlans walking with him seemed to be aware of it too, on some level. As they moved closer to their destination, Saru was sure that he saw them walk a little straighter, unconsciously reflecting the emotional timbre of the atmosphere. This is the circle, he thought. Little wonder their bonds of community are so strong.

  But part of the Kelpien was fearful as well as fascinated. If this was how the Gorlans were, if their collective, gathered will had a common focus, what might happen if it was turned to a darker end? The Peliar engineer Hekan had spoken of those who called the Gorlans violent and primitive. Did those rumors have a grain of truth in them?

  A thought formed as Saru examined the prospect. There was another possibility, and the more he considered it, the more it seemed to fit the facts at hand. Saru could actively sense the aura-fields of the Gorlans, and he imagined that given enough time and cooperation, it might even have been possible for the Kelpien to learn to communicate with the aliens without the use of a universal translator device. A species like humans would never be able to bridge that gap without a technological aid, their more limited senses forever deaf to the ephemeral, additional component to the Gorlan language. Saru could sense the aura and be fully aware of it.

  But what if the Peliars sensed it too? Their physiology is certainly comparable, he thought. Saru would need to conduct a full tricorder scan to be sure, but even a cursory visual examination could pick out the telltale cranial structures on the Peliars where clusters of epithelial cells existed, suggesting that they were beings with a very basic, instinctive electroreceptivity.

  Saru’s theory snapped into sha
rp focus. What if the Peliars unconsciously sense the auras of the Gorlans, but on a level so subtle they are unaware of it? He thought about the unease that Hekan had shown toward them, the anger exhibited by Nathal. Could those be emotional reactions stirred by proximity? All their biases and fears, quietly magnified . . . He tried to put himself in the place of the insular, defensive Peliars. If his theory was right, it would go a long way toward understanding why they instinctively felt the need to reject the Gorlans.

  Finally, the group reached the gathering place where Saru had made his first, unplanned contact, and they halted. The small open square emptied as they approached, the few Gorlans milling around in it immediately dissipating as Saru drew nearer. No one spoke, no one made a sound or a sign to tell the others to leave; they simply departed of their own accord, melting into shadows, disappearing through tent flaps or around makeshift walls. It was disconcerting.

  “Wait here,” Kijoh told him, breaking the silence. “If she wishes to know you, she will come to you. If not . . . then this will go no further.” The pilot bowed her head and walked away. She had only taken a few steps when she stopped suddenly and looked back. “Did you bring a token?”

  “A what?” He blinked at the question.

  Kijoh sighed. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t know our ways. Perhaps it won’t be expected of you.” She turned and left.

  Saru watched the other Gorlans move away, unsure what would happen next. Madoh was the last to go, and before he did, he pointed at Saru with one hand and up into the gloomy hull spaces above with another. “Look there. Do you see?”