Blood & Ice 00.1 - Prelude
BLOOD AND ICE
by Soledad
For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the secondary index page.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PRELUDE
Captain’s personal log, stardate: 42076.7
Captain Julien Picard recording
The Enterprise is en route to the USS Copernicus, to aid in the annual personnel rotation exchange, which is certainly a mission that proves nothing out of the ordinary. However, after the dangerous and near-lethal encounters in the recent months, a routine mission is something that will be welcome by the crew; the next best thing to shore leave, which we cannot grant the crew just yet.
The Starfleet bulletin about the crewmembers to be exchanged hasn’t been sent yet, I’m looking forward with some anxiety to the new personnel Starfleet Command sees fit to gift upon us. There has been talk about allowing ship’s commanders a word in selecting their own crew, but so far, nothing has happened in this direction. Until then, we have no other chance than to wait. Picard out.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Finished with his annoyed log entry, the captain of the Enterprise rose from behind his desk and fetched the half-empty bottle of calvados from his cupboard. He didn’t usually drink while on duty, but sometimes the secrecy of Starfleet HQ frustrated him beyond endurance. As the commanding officer of Starfleet’s flagship and a French aristocrat whose family had some influence in the planetary government of his homeworld, he expected to be given all the details he might need to get the job done.
Unfortunately, some of the more conservative members of Starfleet Command were still suffering from the delusion that the officers serving in the front line - the same ones that kept the Federation safe - didn’t need to be bothered with unnecessary knowledge. Admiral Nakamura, a great admirer of his people’s samurai tradition (or how he interpreted it anyway) was one of those less than practical oriented people.
Well, it couldn’t be helped. Luckily for Picard, he had an android as his Science Officer; an intelligent machine that could converse with computers on their own language and was therefore damn hard to catch when hacking any secret databases. He’d find out everything they needed to know - and then some.
Reassured that they’d be able to do the job, despite the outdated mentality of certain superior officers, Julien Picard allowed himself a very small glass of calvados, removed the evidence from sight, and returned to the bridge.
He could not know that things were about to take an unexpected - and highly unpleasant - turn within minutes.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
While the Enterprise-G, the flagship of Starfleet - not to mention the pride and joy of the entire Admiralty, continued her route to the rendezvous point with her sister ship, both the command staff and any simple member of the two thousand crew used the blessedly uneventful journey to pursue personal interests.
There were always exceptions, of course. Ten Forward was fairly crowded, giving Guinan and her assistant, a shady human of indefinite age and very questionable morals named Ben, more work than usual. There was great traffic in the ship’s beauty shop, too. Both Bolian barbers were flattering around like excited blue hoverballs, their hands waggling almost as fast as their tongues. There was also quite the queue sitting before Keiko Ishikawa’s cosmetic salon, the ladies of various species waiting patiently for their turn while Doctor Selar was receiving her weekly treatment against the - for her - way too wet atmosphere of the ship.
Ships Counselor Natasha Yar was working, too. Such quiet times always reminded the crew that they had problems. Problems that had to be put aside in times of crisis - only to resurface with vengeance, once said crisis was over.
“…and no matter what I might try to catch his attention, he behaves as if I wouldn’t exist at all. Why is it that all people only take me seriously when they have a mathematical problem that not even Commander Data is able to solve? I’m almost eighteen, and still people keep treating me as a baby!”
Currently, the counselor was sitting ramrod-straight in the comfortable armchair of her office, without touching the back of said chair, as it was proper for a well-bred young woman of Betazed, and as she was listening to the girl on the other side of her desk, frustration began to overwhelm her, slowly but inevitably. The girl was the sort of fine-boned, striking beauty seldom seen even in the 25th century, with a flawless, porcelain skin that seemed almost translucent stretching over high cheekbones, with emerald eyes that sparkled with spirit and an untamed temper, and with thick, deep red hair that cascaded down her long, graceful neck and bare shoulders to her waist. Just looking at her could case a heavy bout of inferiority complex in any other woman.
“Just because Mom thinks I make her look old, other people wouldn’t need do coo with me like with a toddler,” the girl continued, with the honest anger of misunderstood teenagers. “Commander Ryker the last, of all people! Were he not chasing after that female beast like poodle, he could notice that I’m not a child anymore.”
There was doubtlessly some truth in that. The tiny chiffon wonders the girl preferred to wear (at the moment an emerald green one, matching the colour of her eyes), made it very clear that - at least where physical attributes were concerned - she was a woman already; the pretty art deco-features and the large, sensual mouth, too, made her look older than her actual age. Her clothes usually contained two rows of broad frilling, one of these covering her bosom, the other running diagonally from one hip to the other knee, and the two rows were held together by some form-hugging, tricot-like middle part. She hadn’t been willing to wear anything else, ever since she had turned thirteen.
Natasha Yar sighed. In her costume, containing a long, straight skirt and a buttoned-up frilled blouse of the same eggshell-like colour, she felt hopelessly colourless and old, facing the radiant, aggressive youth of the girl. Although there was only a fifteen-year age difference between the two of them, Leslie Crusher always made her feel as if she had been embalmed alive. After a session with Leslie she could have used a therapist herself.
Dr. Beverly Crusher, Chief Medical Officer of the Enterprise (and Leslie’s mother), was a personal friend of the counselor’s, so Yar did anything in her power to help her keep the girl away from the First Officer. Not that Will Ryker would have shown any interest in Leslie’s almost obsessive crush, in the contrary: he found new and creative ways to avoid the girl every day. Which only made Leslie madder, of course. She couldn’t understand how it was possible that Ryker was attracted to the ill-mannered Security Chief of the Enterprise instead of her.
Truth be told, Yar didn’t understand it either. William Bonaparte Ryker was an ambitious officer, but he also was a womaniser, a gambler and a lover of good food and excellent drinks. And though he loved his saxophone, his Persian cats and women of any age, status and species, above all he wanted to become his own ship, as soon as possible. He wanted to retire as an admiral at the age of fifty (or possibly sooner), to be able to enjoy his considerable wealth acquired through his gambling casinos on Argelius.
What he saw in the thirty-five-year old, small and thin “Macha” Hernandez, who was said to take the phaser rifle with her in bed, should Worf happen to pull a night shift, was one of the great mysteries of the ship’s life. Granted, Hernandez looked like a Byzantine Madonna - until she opened her mouth. Unfortunately, she rarely shut up, and what she had to say was not meant for sensitive ears.
Hernandez didn’t only serve on a post usually filled by men, being the Chief of Security on Starfleet’s flagship; she also behaved as a man; a particularly aggressive one. Many people underestimated her because of her deceivingly slender frame - these people learned how wrong they had been on the hard way. She barely reached to Yar’s shoulder, but she was all steely muscle and could break anyone’s shin with a single kick, Worf including. Her legendary stamina was - among other things - the result of Klingon martial arts training; her relationship with the ship’s Klingon tactical officer was more than purely romantic (if someone could use the word “romantic” concerning her at all). Given to the mix the fiery Latino tempers caused all people to get out of Hernandez’ way when she was having a bad day... which meant practically always, as Hernandez tended to have bad days only.
Despite her pretty face and dark, exotic eyes, Yar couldn’t really understand how she managed to charm Ryker out of his wits so completely. The counselor had served with the First Officer on the U.S.S. Hood already, so she knew all too well that Will usually preferred the young, exotic, sensual and ruthless girls like Leslie. Bev and Yar couldn’t be thankful enough for the existence of Hernandez (as the CMO still felt too young to become a grandmother already), but they didn’t understand it. It was simply not like Ryker, to miss an opportunity like this.
“... and when I suggested having a picnic on the holodeck, he chickened out, telling me that he had an important meeting with Data,” Leslie complained, obviously offended beyond measure.
Yar sighed again. The emotional patterns of the girl showed that she was nearing the end of her rant, and the counselor now had to try again to appeal to Leslie’s common sense. Unfortunately, this was the only topic where the girl’s brilliant mind mercilessly refused to cooperate, every single time. Which, even more unfortunately, didn’t save Yar from the useless effort of trying the impossible.
“Leslie,” she began, looking desperately for words that would not make the girl even madder, “you have to face the fact that... “
The beeping of the com system saved her from the torture - this time.
“Picard to Yar,” the deep sonorous baritone of the captain came through the speakers.
Yar touched the communicator pinned onto her blouse. “Yar here.”
“Counselor, please come to the bridge. I need you to assess an unexpected situation here with me.”
“On my way, Captain. Yar out.”
She rose, smoothing the skirt on her hips, and gave her visitor an apologetic look. “I am sorry, Leslie, we’ll have to continue another time.”
Leslie shrugged (nearly jumping out of her clothes from the gesture) and raced out without a parting word. She only agreed to partake these sessions because her mother insisted anyway. She stepped into the nearest turbolift, stared at the ceiling for a moment, then her face lit up.
“Cosmetics,” she said, and the ‘lift got into motion.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Less than a minute later, Natasha Yar, too, left her office, freshly groomed and made up for the bridge. Unfortunately, these efforts didn’t give her appearance much more colour. But that wasn’t something she could change. She’d tried once to colour her blonde hair red - and never again. The results had been beyond disastrous; pink hair was not something her patients would find trust-inducing.
“Close your mouth, Ensign, you don’t look very attractive this way,” she warned the well-built, handsome security guard automatically (and with some hidden envy), as the young man was still gazing goofily in the direction where Leslie had left. Then she stepped into the other turbolift cabin and gave her direction, “Main Bridge.”
When she reached the bridge, the rest of the command crew was already there. She took the seat reserved for her on the captain’s left, asking her in a low, discrete voice.
“Has something happened, Captain?”
“I’m not sure,” Picard replied, also quietly. “Communication between us and the Copernicus is blanked out… has been in the last nine hours, in fact. At first we thought it would be a temporary technical problem, but…”
“Captain,” Commander Data, their android crewmember, swivelled around with his chair to face his commanding officer, “I am picking up an automated distress signal from the Copernicus.”
Picard frowned. “That’s odd. Mr Worf, can you give us a visual?”
“Trying, Captain,” the Klingon towering at Tactical glared at his console as if he could intimidate it into working by sheer willpower - which was not entirely out of possibility. “Visual is coming up, sir.”
“Maximum magnification,” Picard ordered as a small image appeared in the centre of the main viewer.
“Maximum magnification, aye,” Worf manipulated the settings, and the image began to grow, until it filled half the scene; then it stopped. “That’s the best I can give you from such a distance, sir,” the Klingon said, without sounding even vaguely apologetic.
Picard nodded. “Scan the ship for life signs, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir,” Worf performed the task with his usual efficiency. He was an extremely efficient officer. The characteristic Klingon single-mindedness prevented him from falling for possible distractions. “There are life signs, Captain; lots of them. However, the readings are providing odd contradictions.”
“What kind of contradictions?” Picard asked.
The Klingon shrugged his massive shoulders. “Cannot really explain, sir. I’ve never seen readings like these before.”
And that, considering Worf’s rather colourful career and the weird things he’d already encountered was saying a lot.
Picard turned to Yar. “Counselor, can you sense anything from the Copernicus?”
Tasha closed her eyes in an effort to focus. Picking up emotional signals from such a great distance wouldn’t have been easy even for a full-blooded Betazoid; and she, like always, was hampered by her human half. But she could actually sense something…
Strangely enough, however, the signals didn’t grow stronger as the Enterprise was racing towards them with Warp factor Six - on the contrary…
“Captain,” she said, opening her eyes. “I can indeed sense numerous life forms, but many of them are growing weaker…”
“Dying?” Riker asked sharply.
Yar shrugged. “That would be the most logical explanation, yes. But there could be other reasons.”
“Hmmm…” Picard stared at the image on the main viewer thoughtfully. “Mr Worf, try to establish contact with the Copernicus.”
A human might have pointed out how futile such an attempt would be. However, obedience towards a commanding officer was ingrained in Klingons - perhaps even genetically encoded in their DNA. In any case, Worf simply did as he was told.
“No answer, Captain,” he reported a minute later. Nobody was surprised.
“Try to scan the hull for damage,” Ryker ordered. “Something must have triggered that automated distress call.”
“No visible damage,” Worf reported, after the surface scan had run its course. “However, the sensors have detected a repulsor field in the Copernicus’ cargo bay.”
“A repulsor field?” Riker said in surprise. “What for? Have they been attacked?”
“There is no sign of a battle going on,” Worf told him, sounding almost disappointed.
“I can’t see against whom they could be fighting anyway,” Picard said. “Granted, we are to meet the Copernicus in a border zone, but there are no hostile powers on the other side of this particular border.”
“Still the crew of the Copernicus is clearly in some kind of danger,” Data pointed out. “We need to determine the exact nature of that danger and consider the most logical means to counteract it.”
“Thank you, Mr Data,” Picard said dryly, “that is exactly what I’m planning to do. Ensign Haskell, increase our speed to Warp eight. Number One, call an emergency staff meeting into my ready room.”
Chapter 01 - Haunted
by Soledad
For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the secondary index page.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PRELUDE
Captain’s personal log, stardate: 42076.7
Captain Julien Picard recording
The Enterprise is en route to the USS Copernicus, to aid in the annual personnel rotation exchange, which is certainly a mission that proves nothing out of the ordinary. However, after the dangerous and near-lethal encounters in the recent months, a routine mission is something that will be welcome by the crew; the next best thing to shore leave, which we cannot grant the crew just yet.
The Starfleet bulletin about the crewmembers to be exchanged hasn’t been sent yet, I’m looking forward with some anxiety to the new personnel Starfleet Command sees fit to gift upon us. There has been talk about allowing ship’s commanders a word in selecting their own crew, but so far, nothing has happened in this direction. Until then, we have no other chance than to wait. Picard out.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Finished with his annoyed log entry, the captain of the Enterprise rose from behind his desk and fetched the half-empty bottle of calvados from his cupboard. He didn’t usually drink while on duty, but sometimes the secrecy of Starfleet HQ frustrated him beyond endurance. As the commanding officer of Starfleet’s flagship and a French aristocrat whose family had some influence in the planetary government of his homeworld, he expected to be given all the details he might need to get the job done.
Unfortunately, some of the more conservative members of Starfleet Command were still suffering from the delusion that the officers serving in the front line - the same ones that kept the Federation safe - didn’t need to be bothered with unnecessary knowledge. Admiral Nakamura, a great admirer of his people’s samurai tradition (or how he interpreted it anyway) was one of those less than practical oriented people.
Well, it couldn’t be helped. Luckily for Picard, he had an android as his Science Officer; an intelligent machine that could converse with computers on their own language and was therefore damn hard to catch when hacking any secret databases. He’d find out everything they needed to know - and then some.
Reassured that they’d be able to do the job, despite the outdated mentality of certain superior officers, Julien Picard allowed himself a very small glass of calvados, removed the evidence from sight, and returned to the bridge.
He could not know that things were about to take an unexpected - and highly unpleasant - turn within minutes.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
While the Enterprise-G, the flagship of Starfleet - not to mention the pride and joy of the entire Admiralty, continued her route to the rendezvous point with her sister ship, both the command staff and any simple member of the two thousand crew used the blessedly uneventful journey to pursue personal interests.
There were always exceptions, of course. Ten Forward was fairly crowded, giving Guinan and her assistant, a shady human of indefinite age and very questionable morals named Ben, more work than usual. There was great traffic in the ship’s beauty shop, too. Both Bolian barbers were flattering around like excited blue hoverballs, their hands waggling almost as fast as their tongues. There was also quite the queue sitting before Keiko Ishikawa’s cosmetic salon, the ladies of various species waiting patiently for their turn while Doctor Selar was receiving her weekly treatment against the - for her - way too wet atmosphere of the ship.
Ships Counselor Natasha Yar was working, too. Such quiet times always reminded the crew that they had problems. Problems that had to be put aside in times of crisis - only to resurface with vengeance, once said crisis was over.
“…and no matter what I might try to catch his attention, he behaves as if I wouldn’t exist at all. Why is it that all people only take me seriously when they have a mathematical problem that not even Commander Data is able to solve? I’m almost eighteen, and still people keep treating me as a baby!”
Currently, the counselor was sitting ramrod-straight in the comfortable armchair of her office, without touching the back of said chair, as it was proper for a well-bred young woman of Betazed, and as she was listening to the girl on the other side of her desk, frustration began to overwhelm her, slowly but inevitably. The girl was the sort of fine-boned, striking beauty seldom seen even in the 25th century, with a flawless, porcelain skin that seemed almost translucent stretching over high cheekbones, with emerald eyes that sparkled with spirit and an untamed temper, and with thick, deep red hair that cascaded down her long, graceful neck and bare shoulders to her waist. Just looking at her could case a heavy bout of inferiority complex in any other woman.
“Just because Mom thinks I make her look old, other people wouldn’t need do coo with me like with a toddler,” the girl continued, with the honest anger of misunderstood teenagers. “Commander Ryker the last, of all people! Were he not chasing after that female beast like poodle, he could notice that I’m not a child anymore.”
There was doubtlessly some truth in that. The tiny chiffon wonders the girl preferred to wear (at the moment an emerald green one, matching the colour of her eyes), made it very clear that - at least where physical attributes were concerned - she was a woman already; the pretty art deco-features and the large, sensual mouth, too, made her look older than her actual age. Her clothes usually contained two rows of broad frilling, one of these covering her bosom, the other running diagonally from one hip to the other knee, and the two rows were held together by some form-hugging, tricot-like middle part. She hadn’t been willing to wear anything else, ever since she had turned thirteen.
Natasha Yar sighed. In her costume, containing a long, straight skirt and a buttoned-up frilled blouse of the same eggshell-like colour, she felt hopelessly colourless and old, facing the radiant, aggressive youth of the girl. Although there was only a fifteen-year age difference between the two of them, Leslie Crusher always made her feel as if she had been embalmed alive. After a session with Leslie she could have used a therapist herself.
Dr. Beverly Crusher, Chief Medical Officer of the Enterprise (and Leslie’s mother), was a personal friend of the counselor’s, so Yar did anything in her power to help her keep the girl away from the First Officer. Not that Will Ryker would have shown any interest in Leslie’s almost obsessive crush, in the contrary: he found new and creative ways to avoid the girl every day. Which only made Leslie madder, of course. She couldn’t understand how it was possible that Ryker was attracted to the ill-mannered Security Chief of the Enterprise instead of her.
Truth be told, Yar didn’t understand it either. William Bonaparte Ryker was an ambitious officer, but he also was a womaniser, a gambler and a lover of good food and excellent drinks. And though he loved his saxophone, his Persian cats and women of any age, status and species, above all he wanted to become his own ship, as soon as possible. He wanted to retire as an admiral at the age of fifty (or possibly sooner), to be able to enjoy his considerable wealth acquired through his gambling casinos on Argelius.
What he saw in the thirty-five-year old, small and thin “Macha” Hernandez, who was said to take the phaser rifle with her in bed, should Worf happen to pull a night shift, was one of the great mysteries of the ship’s life. Granted, Hernandez looked like a Byzantine Madonna - until she opened her mouth. Unfortunately, she rarely shut up, and what she had to say was not meant for sensitive ears.
Hernandez didn’t only serve on a post usually filled by men, being the Chief of Security on Starfleet’s flagship; she also behaved as a man; a particularly aggressive one. Many people underestimated her because of her deceivingly slender frame - these people learned how wrong they had been on the hard way. She barely reached to Yar’s shoulder, but she was all steely muscle and could break anyone’s shin with a single kick, Worf including. Her legendary stamina was - among other things - the result of Klingon martial arts training; her relationship with the ship’s Klingon tactical officer was more than purely romantic (if someone could use the word “romantic” concerning her at all). Given to the mix the fiery Latino tempers caused all people to get out of Hernandez’ way when she was having a bad day... which meant practically always, as Hernandez tended to have bad days only.
Despite her pretty face and dark, exotic eyes, Yar couldn’t really understand how she managed to charm Ryker out of his wits so completely. The counselor had served with the First Officer on the U.S.S. Hood already, so she knew all too well that Will usually preferred the young, exotic, sensual and ruthless girls like Leslie. Bev and Yar couldn’t be thankful enough for the existence of Hernandez (as the CMO still felt too young to become a grandmother already), but they didn’t understand it. It was simply not like Ryker, to miss an opportunity like this.
“... and when I suggested having a picnic on the holodeck, he chickened out, telling me that he had an important meeting with Data,” Leslie complained, obviously offended beyond measure.
Yar sighed again. The emotional patterns of the girl showed that she was nearing the end of her rant, and the counselor now had to try again to appeal to Leslie’s common sense. Unfortunately, this was the only topic where the girl’s brilliant mind mercilessly refused to cooperate, every single time. Which, even more unfortunately, didn’t save Yar from the useless effort of trying the impossible.
“Leslie,” she began, looking desperately for words that would not make the girl even madder, “you have to face the fact that... “
The beeping of the com system saved her from the torture - this time.
“Picard to Yar,” the deep sonorous baritone of the captain came through the speakers.
Yar touched the communicator pinned onto her blouse. “Yar here.”
“Counselor, please come to the bridge. I need you to assess an unexpected situation here with me.”
“On my way, Captain. Yar out.”
She rose, smoothing the skirt on her hips, and gave her visitor an apologetic look. “I am sorry, Leslie, we’ll have to continue another time.”
Leslie shrugged (nearly jumping out of her clothes from the gesture) and raced out without a parting word. She only agreed to partake these sessions because her mother insisted anyway. She stepped into the nearest turbolift, stared at the ceiling for a moment, then her face lit up.
“Cosmetics,” she said, and the ‘lift got into motion.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Less than a minute later, Natasha Yar, too, left her office, freshly groomed and made up for the bridge. Unfortunately, these efforts didn’t give her appearance much more colour. But that wasn’t something she could change. She’d tried once to colour her blonde hair red - and never again. The results had been beyond disastrous; pink hair was not something her patients would find trust-inducing.
“Close your mouth, Ensign, you don’t look very attractive this way,” she warned the well-built, handsome security guard automatically (and with some hidden envy), as the young man was still gazing goofily in the direction where Leslie had left. Then she stepped into the other turbolift cabin and gave her direction, “Main Bridge.”
When she reached the bridge, the rest of the command crew was already there. She took the seat reserved for her on the captain’s left, asking her in a low, discrete voice.
“Has something happened, Captain?”
“I’m not sure,” Picard replied, also quietly. “Communication between us and the Copernicus is blanked out… has been in the last nine hours, in fact. At first we thought it would be a temporary technical problem, but…”
“Captain,” Commander Data, their android crewmember, swivelled around with his chair to face his commanding officer, “I am picking up an automated distress signal from the Copernicus.”
Picard frowned. “That’s odd. Mr Worf, can you give us a visual?”
“Trying, Captain,” the Klingon towering at Tactical glared at his console as if he could intimidate it into working by sheer willpower - which was not entirely out of possibility. “Visual is coming up, sir.”
“Maximum magnification,” Picard ordered as a small image appeared in the centre of the main viewer.
“Maximum magnification, aye,” Worf manipulated the settings, and the image began to grow, until it filled half the scene; then it stopped. “That’s the best I can give you from such a distance, sir,” the Klingon said, without sounding even vaguely apologetic.
Picard nodded. “Scan the ship for life signs, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir,” Worf performed the task with his usual efficiency. He was an extremely efficient officer. The characteristic Klingon single-mindedness prevented him from falling for possible distractions. “There are life signs, Captain; lots of them. However, the readings are providing odd contradictions.”
“What kind of contradictions?” Picard asked.
The Klingon shrugged his massive shoulders. “Cannot really explain, sir. I’ve never seen readings like these before.”
And that, considering Worf’s rather colourful career and the weird things he’d already encountered was saying a lot.
Picard turned to Yar. “Counselor, can you sense anything from the Copernicus?”
Tasha closed her eyes in an effort to focus. Picking up emotional signals from such a great distance wouldn’t have been easy even for a full-blooded Betazoid; and she, like always, was hampered by her human half. But she could actually sense something…
Strangely enough, however, the signals didn’t grow stronger as the Enterprise was racing towards them with Warp factor Six - on the contrary…
“Captain,” she said, opening her eyes. “I can indeed sense numerous life forms, but many of them are growing weaker…”
“Dying?” Riker asked sharply.
Yar shrugged. “That would be the most logical explanation, yes. But there could be other reasons.”
“Hmmm…” Picard stared at the image on the main viewer thoughtfully. “Mr Worf, try to establish contact with the Copernicus.”
A human might have pointed out how futile such an attempt would be. However, obedience towards a commanding officer was ingrained in Klingons - perhaps even genetically encoded in their DNA. In any case, Worf simply did as he was told.
“No answer, Captain,” he reported a minute later. Nobody was surprised.
“Try to scan the hull for damage,” Ryker ordered. “Something must have triggered that automated distress call.”
“No visible damage,” Worf reported, after the surface scan had run its course. “However, the sensors have detected a repulsor field in the Copernicus’ cargo bay.”
“A repulsor field?” Riker said in surprise. “What for? Have they been attacked?”
“There is no sign of a battle going on,” Worf told him, sounding almost disappointed.
“I can’t see against whom they could be fighting anyway,” Picard said. “Granted, we are to meet the Copernicus in a border zone, but there are no hostile powers on the other side of this particular border.”
“Still the crew of the Copernicus is clearly in some kind of danger,” Data pointed out. “We need to determine the exact nature of that danger and consider the most logical means to counteract it.”
“Thank you, Mr Data,” Picard said dryly, “that is exactly what I’m planning to do. Ensign Haskell, increase our speed to Warp eight. Number One, call an emergency staff meeting into my ready room.”
Chapter 01 - Haunted