Cybersong (2 page)

“Computer, give the text of latest transmission,” the captain said in an even voice.

“There was no text in that transmission,” the computer’s mechanical voice replied.

Janeway shook her head slightly. Computers could be maddeningly literal and needed to be prodded every step of the way. Janeway carefully kept the frustration out of her voice as she queried for further information.

Frustration at the computer was as useless as frustration at their situation.

She remembered a leadership course at the Academy where the psychologists in charge had instructed the cadets to use their anger, to turn that energy into something productive.

Kathryn Janeway did not agree, not anymore. That was useful for planetside problems that hard work and determination could solve.

Those psychologists had never been stuck on the other side of the galaxy, responsible for a crew torn from their families, their lives, from all humanity they had known or expected to know.

“Dataset includes target coordinates,” the computer said emotionlessly.

“Voyager is instructed to arrive at zero point seven three vector six, warp three.”

“That’s the middle of that thing,” Tom Paris said.

“Computer, is there any further information?” the captain asked.

“Additional data is not available,” the computer voice replied.

“Then we have no reason to suspect going here will do anything but waste time,” Janeway said. She didn’t add the phrase “and resources,” though she couldn’t avoid the thought. “Mr. Paris, ignore the computer coordinates and remain on course.” She touched her commbadge and spoke quietly. “Mr. Neelix, meet me in my ready room.” Then the captain left the bridge.

***

When Neelix arrived in the ready room, Captain Janeway was staring at an inventory list. She didn’t switch off the display when the Talaxian arrived, dressed in his usual brightly colored motley attire that clashed with the restful tones around him. He sat in one of the high-back upholstered chairs and waited until the captain was ready to acknowledge him.

“Mr. Neelix, I have a question for you about this region.

However, before we begin I would like you to look at this listing from stores. According to this morning’s tally, we have less than half the Grolian flour and pineapples left. Our estimates last month were for us to have at least seventy percent of those items remaining before we entered this zone.”

Neelix stared at the figures displayed before him and shook his head.

“I don’t know, Captain. I was certain we had more than that.”

“You didn’t move any to a place the provisions officer wouldn’t find it?” Janeway asked. “You didn’t take supplies down to your galley, or maybe put them elsewhere?”

The Talaxian shook his head. “No, Captain. There was some mold in the flour. I put it in the freezer where it would be killed.

And I threw out the molded bags. But freezing generally keeps the rest from going bad.”

“And the apples?” Janeway asked, refusing to react until she had a complete report.

“Oh, the apples were used,” Neelix said, rubbing his hands. “My apple pie last week. Everyone loved it. They talked about it for days. Why even yesterday Mr. Kim asked me if I was going to make more.”

The captain stared coolly at the cook. “Those apples have exceptional longevity, or so you told me. We don’t have the luxury of desserts using up provisions that we could well need before we can replenish our supplies. And in the case of the tainted grain, you have to inform me and the provisions officer immediately. I can’t make good decisions with bad information.”

Neelix rose and pulled himself to his full inconsiderable height.

“Captain, as this ship’s morale officer, I decided that desserts are an important part of our diet and routine. I do not make extravagant meals all the time, but after something traumatic, well, the crew needs a pick-me-up. And we’ll get to Tsrana in less than three weeks. As long as the Tsranans are willing to trade, we won’t have any trouble at all.”

“As long as the Tsranans are willing to trade?” Janeway asked, her hopes sinking.

“Oh, I’m sure we can work something out, as long as it isn’t one of their closed days.”

Captain Janeway sighed. Closed days. She had heard of cultures in the Alpha Quadrant like this, semi-isolationists who wanted the goods trade brought but didn’t want to interact with aliens.

They were never easy to get along with, and trade was always troublesome at best.

“Don’t give it a second thought, Captain. I know a great deal about the Tsranans. I’m sure we can arrange a very reasonable trade,” Neelix tried to reassure her.

There were times when the Talaxian deeply tried Captain Janeway’s patience. He said he knew this sector, but much of his knowledge was based on hearsay and rumor, and often his estimates were more optimistic than pragmatic.

“If we get to Tsrana on time, we’ll still be cutting it close,” Janeway said. “We don’t have any reserves in case of a delay or an emergency, and as it is, we’re going to be down to Meezian stew for the last three days as it is.”

“I make wonderful Meezian stew,” Neelix said, rubbing his hands together. “And it’s very nutritious.”

“That’s not the point, Mr. Neelix,” the captain said crisply.

“The point is, we are very low on supplies, and it’s a long way until we get provisions. So I want to see some real economy in our use of what we have. Do you understand?”

“Will that be all?” Neelix asked. “I have to go start the vegetables for dinner. We’re having a new creation. Mr. Paris told me about pot pies, and while I don’t have a recipe or the traditional ingredients he mentioned, I think I have an idea to make it even better.”

It took all of the captain’s training, experience, and natural reserve not to wince. What Neelix did to native Earth dishes was best left unimagined, not to mention what he did to plomeek soup.

“There is something else,” the captain said. “Please sit back down.

You told me when we discussed courses several weeks ago that there was some danger in the region, but you never specified what it was. I would like to hear it, and I would like to know how you know.”

Neelix cleared his throat and stroked the dark glass of the table before him. “Well, Captain, everyone knows there is something lurking here that lures in ships and leaves them. It’s an old story. My grandmother told me when her grandfather was on a ship that passed close to the Singing Quarter they took on a passenger who had escaped from the trap. The singing is the trap, the passenger said. I don’t know what that means, precisely, but a lot of ships have been lost, never traced and never found. Like a black hole swallowed them up.”

“Our readings show no indication of any black holes for light years in any direction,” Janeway said, musing. “But those hulks out there in the tachyon field … Computer, display the image we picked up of the transmitting ship.”

As the computer promptly recreated the picture on the small personal screen in the ready room, Janeway told Neelix to look at it. “Is there anything here you can identify?” she asked as Neelix studied the remains of spacecraft displayed before him.

“That one,” he said, jabbing his finger at an indistinct object in the array.

“Full magnification,” the captain ordered.

What had been little more than a vague shadow filled the screen with detail. Red marks, presumably writing, marched down one side of the craft to where it had been ripped open. A few small tendrils of dead wire drifted out the open lock.

Neelix trembled.

“Mr. Neelix, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the captain said.

“Yes, Captain,” Neelix replied. “I have.”

“Mr. Paris, check your headings,” Commander Chakotay, the first officer said. “The captain said that we are not investigating this phenomena.”

“Yes, sir,” Tom Paris replied. “I’ve been keeping us on a steady course, headed around the tachyon cloud.”

“I suggest that you check that again,” Chakotay said dryly.

Paris ran his fingers over his instruments as if he didn’t have to watch to know exactly what he would find.

“No, sir, according to all my readouts, there is no course deviation.”

Chakotay stared at the main screen without seeing the display.

He didn’t really trust Paris, and he didn’t have any choice but to trust him. Every day on Voyager he had to rely on a man who had betrayed him.

For some people this would be impossible. For Chakotay it was merely difficult. And he had done far more difficult things before.

Right now was not one of those times. Right now Chakotay knew that something was wrong. Something subtle and slippery, something that he couldn’t immediately identify.

He knew they weren’t on the right course. Everything looked right.

The forward display was mostly dark broken by a few steady stars in the distance and glints off objects that looked like space junk—random rocks or bits of water vapor that froze in absolute zero to become beautiful reflectors. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary at all.

But Paris wasn’t lying. The computer gave out data that confirmed their current course. The screen before him showed empty space with just a few distant stars. There was no reason for him to suspect a problem—except for the intuition that he had trusted all his life, the sixth sense that had rarely been wrong before.

He had no evidence to bring to the captain, who was busy in conference with Neelix. But he knew he had to do something, and soon, before irreparable damage was done.

He knew that even a small alteration of course could destroy them. The captain had not shared her concern about supplies with him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of both the problem and her doubt. He had seen enough of the stores and the calculations over this part of the journey to know that the two matched far too closely for comfort.

Chakotay rose warily from the captain’s chair and moved toward Ensign Kim’s station. Harry did not notice the commander’s approach. His fingers danced across the board and his eyes remained fixed on the monitor.

“Mr. Kim, how are those tachyon readings? Is the bombardment still high, or have we already passed into a lower range?” he asked, careful to keep his voice controlled as if he merely wanted additional data.

The young ensign looked up, startled. He studied his board once more and his face became tense. “That’s odd,” he said, and checked again before making a formal report. “The tachyon bombardment has increased, even though we should be pulling away from the cloud.”

The commander nodded. “Mr. Paris, according to your readings, should we have emerged from the bombardment by now?”

But before the question was out of Chakotay’s mouth, Tom Paris was shaking his head vigorously in response. “No, this is just wrong,” Paris said.

Chakotay strode toward the helmsman’s station, put his hand on the back of the chair, and looked over Paris’ shoulder. At least there should be some drop in the readings. Certainly it shouldn’t have gotten worse, Chakotay thought as Paris’ monitor beeped at him mockingly.

“We should have passed out of the field six minutes ago,” Paris reported. “There is still tachyon activity at the edges of the cloud, but it doesn’t make any sense for it to be increasing, sir.”

“No,” Chakotay agreed. “It doesn’t make sense.” The executive officer felt a chill. Janeway was still closeted with their Talaxian guide.

He could call her, but he decided to test further.

If they lost half an hour, he would take the responsibility.

Captain Janeway expected her officers to be able to act independently, to make decisions. She relied on him most of all for this quality.

After all, he had been a commanding officer himself once, and not so long ago. Command was not an easy habit to acquire, but once learned it was never entirely laid aside.

“As an experiment, Mr. Paris, take us about to mark seven point zero two three. And Mr. Kim, watch those tachyon readings and report any change immediately.”

The entire staff on the bridge looked at him. Only the Vulcan security officer nodded once, signaling his comprehension of the tactic. The others merely turned to their work.

“Ready to bring her about on mark seven point zero two three, warp three. Now,” Tom Paris said, indicating the course change.

The bridge was silent. Everyone waited, eyes on Harry Kim. The young ensign said nothing, his eyes glued to his console, his mouth frowning with tension.

Chakotay waited. Ten minutes, he decided. He would wait that long.

In ten minutes at warp three they should be well gone. In ten seconds at warp three there should be changes, he knew. And as the silence grew he knew there was something very wrong indeed.

Ten minutes? He cut it in half. Five. There had to be some change.

Something. Maybe he hadn’t been entirely clear. The minutes moved slowly. His breathing sounded loud and harsh.

“Mr. Kim?” he asked over half a minute early.

“No change, sir,” the helmsman replied promptly. “Maybe getting a little heavier, but with this much interference it’s difficult to calibrate as precisely as we might like.

“What does it mean, sir?” Tom Paris asked.

Chakotay never took his eyes from the screen in front of them.

“It means that something is very wrong, Mr. Paris.”

***

“It was a long time ago when I was still in school,” Neelix was telling the captain. “My brother was working on a merchant vessel before the war with Hace Konia broke out. And one school break I went with him on a short hop to learn a little, but mostly because he thought it would be good for me to get me away from our parents. They were very protective. Maybe he was right and they were overprotective. But they were stricter with him than with me. He wasn’t allowed to go camping until he was twelve.” Neelix drew a breath and looked at the pictures up on the bulkhead of the ready room. He studied one and then moved on restlessly, flicking a hand in the air as if to whisk away an imaginary insect.

“Anyway, that doesn’t really matter. What does is this. I was aboard the freighter, and I saw it with my own eyes. A single Rhiellian was drifting in space in his capsule, and he was still alive. We picked him up, but he was a typical Rhiellian; he protested and blamed us for saving his life. The rest of his corda were gone, and he didn’t know what had happened. They had received a distorted distress call and had gone into an active tachyon cloud. From there his description was distorted. All he could talk about was loneliness, how horrible and cold the dark was.