Poor Rice, she just can't catch a break 
Tales of the USS Bluefin: "Survivor"
- Thread starter TheLoneRedshirt
- Start date
This is freaking me out!
I heard a dramatic music cue in my head the first time they detected a "malfunction" on Bluefin. Now its obvious to everybody but the crew that history is repeating itself and that's not a good thing from everything we know so far. Although, in fairness, that ain't much.
What an outstandingly creepy mystery this is.
What an outstandingly creepy mystery this is.
Chapter 6
Stardate 30326.6 (30 April 2353)
USS Adirondack NCC-10825
Sector B77412, Beta Quadrant
System K4419
Ship's Log, Stardate . . . ah . . . 30326.6, Science Officer, Lt. Madison Gillis, Recording
I am . . . at a loss to explain the events of the past 24 hours, but I will try to summarize . . . Maybe someone will discover this log and make sense of all this. I'm trying to remain focused, but I am terrified . . .
The ship is on emergency power. Captain Torekov is missing . . . along with nearly half of the crew. How or why, we don't know. In all, 417 of our shipmates have disappeared . . . vanished, without a trace. The transporters aren't working, nor could we discover any indication that a transporter from another ship was used. They're just . . . gone.
Gillis paused, straining to listen. The bio-metric sensors to her cabin door were disabled, but . . .
Nothing.
Focus Maddie, dammit!
She resumed the log entry.
We, um, beamed down a landing party to the third planet, led by our First Officer, Commander Ch'Shyla and our Chief Science Officer, Lt. Commander V'Nas. Their initial findings matched our long-range sensor readings and probe data; no sentient life-forms were discovered. All was going according to standard operating procedure, when two members of the landing party disappeared. They were on a vast, flat, savanna with no trees in sight and a clear view to the horizon in all directions. The others scanned for them but there was no trace.
Commander Ch'Shyla requested additional crew beam down to help with a search . . . that's when the transporters failed. The Captain ordered shuttle craft sent down but . . . they . . . both crashed. . .
She paused the entry again, shaking as sobs wracked her body. Part was a reaction to pent-up grief, part was . . .
Gillis shook her head to clear it and rubbed her face with her sleeve. She glanced at the phaser that sat on the desk next to the monitor. It would be so easy . . .
Again, she resumed the log entry.
Afterwards, we attempted to communicate with the landing party, but no response . . . I have no idea if any of the landing party is still alive . . .
That's when the other ship appeared . . . out of nowhere . . . it was vast . . . dark as space, faceted like a jewel. It did not show up on sensors until it was right on top of us. The ship did not respond to our hails. I suggested using laser signals and binary code to try to establish communication . . . perhaps they could help. But all we received was the same, steady signal that drew us into this system.
I don't think they came to help.
Once more, Lt. Gillis paused. She glanced at the holo-cube of her parents, her younger sister, Erin, and their Labrador Retriever, Clyde. Tears blurred her vision as she held the image cube. Placing it back, carefully, she said:
We still have limited sensors and emergency life-support, but most systems are failing or have already failed. Lt. Jarvis is senior officer left on board . . . or was, not sure if he's still (unintelligable) . . . trying to keep it together . . . I am so scared . . . wondering when I will . . .
She looked up. “Oh!”
(Log entry abruptly ends. Lt. Madison Gillis' life signs were no longer detected on USS Adirondack as of Stardate 30326.62.)
* * *
Stardate 53854.5 (9 November 2376)
USS Bluefin NCC-4458
Molari Badlands
“We've got a problem.”
Captain Akinola looked up as Lt. Commander Gralt and Lt. Simms entered his ready room. The Tellarite had spoken without preamble.
“Can you be more specific?” asked Akinola. Seeing the two engineers together hinted that the news was not good.
“We've encountered some sort of sub-space dampening field,” replied Simms. “It's preventing us from going to warp and also hindering sub-space communications.”
The Captain frowned. “Source?”
Gralt shook his head. “That's the devilish thing . . . we can't locate the source, though we've done thorough scans of surrounding space out to three A.U.s. I'd like permission to launch probes beyond our sensor range . . . maybe we can locate the cause and move away to get clear of its influence.”
“Permission granted. But if the probes come up empty?” asked Akinola, already knowing the answer.
The Chief Engineer snorted. “We're stuck in the middle of the badlands and cut off from the rest of the galaxy. It would take us years at maximum impulse just to get back to the space lanes.”
“I'm aware of that, Mr. Gralt,” replied Akinola sharply. “You and Lt. Simms have my complete confidence that you'll come up with a solution.” He stood. “Anything else?”
“Yes sir,” replied Simms. “It's small in comparison, but the list of minor malfunctions is growing . . . temperature fluctuations in various cabins, intra-ship comms are in and out, door sensors operating erratically . . .”
Akinola pondered this. “I don't believe in coincidences, Lieutenant. There are too many things going wrong at the same time.”
“And they all started when we brought that thrice-damned vessel on board,” pointed out Gralt. “Maybe it's time we jettisoned the frelling thing.”
The Captain was quiet a moment. He turned and stared out the viewport at the beautiful/terrible miasma of the badlands.
“I'll consider it as an option, but I'd prefer to take it back for study. If things get worse or anything occurs that might endanger the crew or ship, inform me immediately and we'll get it off the ship.”
* * *
Sickbay
Dr. Castille watched the still form of Lt. Gillis as her chest rose and fell, rose and fell. Since the unexpected and intense screaming frenzy that, thankfully, was short-lived, Gillis had been silent and unresponsive.
He checked her radial pulse with two fingers, an ancient but time-honored method employed by physicians who value physical touch as much or more than sensors and technology.
Her pulse was strong and steady, her skin temperature warm but unchanged. He tapped reflex points and was rewarded by definite, if small reactions.
Physically, Lt. Gillis was in good condition, setting aside the fact that some of her internal parts were not her own. As to her psyche . . .
He'd considered asking Rice to repeat her humming, but decided against it for both Gillis' sake as well as the Corpsman. Truth be told, the incident left him shaken as well.
Pulling up a chair, he continued to gaze at the Starfleet officer, lost and locked within the prison of her own mind.
He had treated his share of traumatized Starfleet personnel, casualties of the recent war. Even with modern medicine and the ability to repair horrendous wounds, the psychological scars were the deepest and the hardest to treat. It was a shame that the Border Service did not have Counselors on their ships.
Castille sensed another presence just outside the cubicle. Supposing it to be Corpsman Sanders, he kept his gaze on Gillis until a shadow fell over him.
Turning, his breath caught and his brain had difficulty processing what his eyes saw.
“¡Madre de Dios! ,” he breathed.
* * *
Hangar Deck
“What the frak do you mean, it's gone?” thundered Gralt.
Ensign Patel would have gladly gargled boiling Deuterium rather than face the ire of the Chief Engineer.
“Sir, it was still there, unchanged, just five minutes ago. I went to the head and I wasn't gone more than a minute, but when I returned . . . well . . .”
Patel gestured sheepishly at the space where the vessel lay. Or had lay, as the space was now empty. The containment field still thrummed softly, the faint blue shimmer still intact, and the exterior doors of the hangar bay were firmly shut.
But the mysterious vessel was no longer there.
“Show me the sensor logs,” demanded the angry Tellarite.
Patael blanched. “Um, sir, about that . . .”
Gralt fixed the hapless junior officer with a baleful stare.
“Ensign Patel,” he began slowly, his tone all the more dangerous because he wasn't cursing, “You will take a break and leave the hangar deck. Get food, take a nap, seduce Ensign M'Tharn, any or all of the above, I don't care, but get out of my sight for the next hour. I will review the logs myself. If, by the deities, I get a hint that you screwed up, I will use your worthless hide as insulation for the RCS thrusters, understood?”
“Yessir.”
“Why are you still standing here, Ensign?”
Patel beat a hasty retreat. Gralt watched him depart and sighed. Patel was a good engineer; it was unlike him to screw up.
With a grunt, he settled into a chair and called up the sensor logs at a console that monitored the hangar bay.
He backed the time index ten minutes, just prior to Patel's frantic call to Engineering. The image showed the young engineer with a data PADD, walking back and forth along the containment field. The vessel (Gralt thought of it more as a creche) was still there.
Patel looked around, ostensibly to have someone else keep an eye on the vessel, but apparently no one else was on the hangar deck at the moment. The Ensign tucked the PADD under his arm and walked briskly toward the hangar exit and the corridor beyond.
That's when the video feed blinked. It was a momentary blip, but one second the vessel was there, the next it wasn't.
Gralt muttered an obscenity, adjusted the sensor feed controls and tried again . . . with the same results. The third time he let the playback continue, but slowed it down to a bare crawl.
At the ultra-slow playback rate, his jaw dropped when he saw the vessel shrink and change. It happened within a fraction of a second, but there was no doubt as to what he saw.
The strange vessel shrank and transformed. Legs and arms protruded from an angular, obsidian body. A head of sorts appeared, lacking any features, yet Gralt had the sense that it stared right into the sensor feed before melting into the deck.
“What the frak?” Gralt exclaimed.
* * *
To Be Continued.
Stardate 30326.6 (30 April 2353)
USS Adirondack NCC-10825
Sector B77412, Beta Quadrant
System K4419
Ship's Log, Stardate . . . ah . . . 30326.6, Science Officer, Lt. Madison Gillis, Recording
I am . . . at a loss to explain the events of the past 24 hours, but I will try to summarize . . . Maybe someone will discover this log and make sense of all this. I'm trying to remain focused, but I am terrified . . .
The ship is on emergency power. Captain Torekov is missing . . . along with nearly half of the crew. How or why, we don't know. In all, 417 of our shipmates have disappeared . . . vanished, without a trace. The transporters aren't working, nor could we discover any indication that a transporter from another ship was used. They're just . . . gone.
Gillis paused, straining to listen. The bio-metric sensors to her cabin door were disabled, but . . .
Nothing.
Focus Maddie, dammit!
She resumed the log entry.
We, um, beamed down a landing party to the third planet, led by our First Officer, Commander Ch'Shyla and our Chief Science Officer, Lt. Commander V'Nas. Their initial findings matched our long-range sensor readings and probe data; no sentient life-forms were discovered. All was going according to standard operating procedure, when two members of the landing party disappeared. They were on a vast, flat, savanna with no trees in sight and a clear view to the horizon in all directions. The others scanned for them but there was no trace.
Commander Ch'Shyla requested additional crew beam down to help with a search . . . that's when the transporters failed. The Captain ordered shuttle craft sent down but . . . they . . . both crashed. . .
She paused the entry again, shaking as sobs wracked her body. Part was a reaction to pent-up grief, part was . . .
Gillis shook her head to clear it and rubbed her face with her sleeve. She glanced at the phaser that sat on the desk next to the monitor. It would be so easy . . .
Again, she resumed the log entry.
Afterwards, we attempted to communicate with the landing party, but no response . . . I have no idea if any of the landing party is still alive . . .
That's when the other ship appeared . . . out of nowhere . . . it was vast . . . dark as space, faceted like a jewel. It did not show up on sensors until it was right on top of us. The ship did not respond to our hails. I suggested using laser signals and binary code to try to establish communication . . . perhaps they could help. But all we received was the same, steady signal that drew us into this system.
I don't think they came to help.
Once more, Lt. Gillis paused. She glanced at the holo-cube of her parents, her younger sister, Erin, and their Labrador Retriever, Clyde. Tears blurred her vision as she held the image cube. Placing it back, carefully, she said:
We still have limited sensors and emergency life-support, but most systems are failing or have already failed. Lt. Jarvis is senior officer left on board . . . or was, not sure if he's still (unintelligable) . . . trying to keep it together . . . I am so scared . . . wondering when I will . . .
She looked up. “Oh!”
(Log entry abruptly ends. Lt. Madison Gillis' life signs were no longer detected on USS Adirondack as of Stardate 30326.62.)
* * *
Stardate 53854.5 (9 November 2376)
USS Bluefin NCC-4458
Molari Badlands
“We've got a problem.”
Captain Akinola looked up as Lt. Commander Gralt and Lt. Simms entered his ready room. The Tellarite had spoken without preamble.
“Can you be more specific?” asked Akinola. Seeing the two engineers together hinted that the news was not good.
“We've encountered some sort of sub-space dampening field,” replied Simms. “It's preventing us from going to warp and also hindering sub-space communications.”
The Captain frowned. “Source?”
Gralt shook his head. “That's the devilish thing . . . we can't locate the source, though we've done thorough scans of surrounding space out to three A.U.s. I'd like permission to launch probes beyond our sensor range . . . maybe we can locate the cause and move away to get clear of its influence.”
“Permission granted. But if the probes come up empty?” asked Akinola, already knowing the answer.
The Chief Engineer snorted. “We're stuck in the middle of the badlands and cut off from the rest of the galaxy. It would take us years at maximum impulse just to get back to the space lanes.”
“I'm aware of that, Mr. Gralt,” replied Akinola sharply. “You and Lt. Simms have my complete confidence that you'll come up with a solution.” He stood. “Anything else?”
“Yes sir,” replied Simms. “It's small in comparison, but the list of minor malfunctions is growing . . . temperature fluctuations in various cabins, intra-ship comms are in and out, door sensors operating erratically . . .”
Akinola pondered this. “I don't believe in coincidences, Lieutenant. There are too many things going wrong at the same time.”
“And they all started when we brought that thrice-damned vessel on board,” pointed out Gralt. “Maybe it's time we jettisoned the frelling thing.”
The Captain was quiet a moment. He turned and stared out the viewport at the beautiful/terrible miasma of the badlands.
“I'll consider it as an option, but I'd prefer to take it back for study. If things get worse or anything occurs that might endanger the crew or ship, inform me immediately and we'll get it off the ship.”
* * *
Sickbay
Dr. Castille watched the still form of Lt. Gillis as her chest rose and fell, rose and fell. Since the unexpected and intense screaming frenzy that, thankfully, was short-lived, Gillis had been silent and unresponsive.
He checked her radial pulse with two fingers, an ancient but time-honored method employed by physicians who value physical touch as much or more than sensors and technology.
Her pulse was strong and steady, her skin temperature warm but unchanged. He tapped reflex points and was rewarded by definite, if small reactions.
Physically, Lt. Gillis was in good condition, setting aside the fact that some of her internal parts were not her own. As to her psyche . . .
He'd considered asking Rice to repeat her humming, but decided against it for both Gillis' sake as well as the Corpsman. Truth be told, the incident left him shaken as well.
Pulling up a chair, he continued to gaze at the Starfleet officer, lost and locked within the prison of her own mind.
He had treated his share of traumatized Starfleet personnel, casualties of the recent war. Even with modern medicine and the ability to repair horrendous wounds, the psychological scars were the deepest and the hardest to treat. It was a shame that the Border Service did not have Counselors on their ships.
Castille sensed another presence just outside the cubicle. Supposing it to be Corpsman Sanders, he kept his gaze on Gillis until a shadow fell over him.
Turning, his breath caught and his brain had difficulty processing what his eyes saw.
“¡Madre de Dios! ,” he breathed.
* * *
Hangar Deck
“What the frak do you mean, it's gone?” thundered Gralt.
Ensign Patel would have gladly gargled boiling Deuterium rather than face the ire of the Chief Engineer.
“Sir, it was still there, unchanged, just five minutes ago. I went to the head and I wasn't gone more than a minute, but when I returned . . . well . . .”
Patel gestured sheepishly at the space where the vessel lay. Or had lay, as the space was now empty. The containment field still thrummed softly, the faint blue shimmer still intact, and the exterior doors of the hangar bay were firmly shut.
But the mysterious vessel was no longer there.
“Show me the sensor logs,” demanded the angry Tellarite.
Patael blanched. “Um, sir, about that . . .”
Gralt fixed the hapless junior officer with a baleful stare.
“Ensign Patel,” he began slowly, his tone all the more dangerous because he wasn't cursing, “You will take a break and leave the hangar deck. Get food, take a nap, seduce Ensign M'Tharn, any or all of the above, I don't care, but get out of my sight for the next hour. I will review the logs myself. If, by the deities, I get a hint that you screwed up, I will use your worthless hide as insulation for the RCS thrusters, understood?”
“Yessir.”
“Why are you still standing here, Ensign?”
Patel beat a hasty retreat. Gralt watched him depart and sighed. Patel was a good engineer; it was unlike him to screw up.
With a grunt, he settled into a chair and called up the sensor logs at a console that monitored the hangar bay.
He backed the time index ten minutes, just prior to Patel's frantic call to Engineering. The image showed the young engineer with a data PADD, walking back and forth along the containment field. The vessel (Gralt thought of it more as a creche) was still there.
Patel looked around, ostensibly to have someone else keep an eye on the vessel, but apparently no one else was on the hangar deck at the moment. The Ensign tucked the PADD under his arm and walked briskly toward the hangar exit and the corridor beyond.
That's when the video feed blinked. It was a momentary blip, but one second the vessel was there, the next it wasn't.
Gralt muttered an obscenity, adjusted the sensor feed controls and tried again . . . with the same results. The third time he let the playback continue, but slowed it down to a bare crawl.
At the ultra-slow playback rate, his jaw dropped when he saw the vessel shrink and change. It happened within a fraction of a second, but there was no doubt as to what he saw.
The strange vessel shrank and transformed. Legs and arms protruded from an angular, obsidian body. A head of sorts appeared, lacking any features, yet Gralt had the sense that it stared right into the sensor feed before melting into the deck.
“What the frak?” Gralt exclaimed.
* * *
To Be Continued.
Whoa... It sounds like some kind of alien that reminds me of the Tholians got aboard.
Gillis' log entry was harrowing, even only getting the bare details and not everything else that happened its easy to see just how bad things have gotten.
Add to that the ever deepening mystery and every step forward leads to five steps back.
Add to that the ever deepening mystery and every step forward leads to five steps back.
Things continue to be fricken weird. I mean, what the hell is going on here, people? Who is doing all this and why and how?
Disappearing people is yet another wrinkle and I wouldn't be surprised if the same were to happen to Bluefin's crew. Although the living vessel now seemingly creeping around the ship may be a more immediate concern.
Freaky. Stuff.
Disappearing people is yet another wrinkle and I wouldn't be surprised if the same were to happen to Bluefin's crew. Although the living vessel now seemingly creeping around the ship may be a more immediate concern.
Freaky. Stuff.
Chapter 7
Stardate 30326.9 (30 April 2353)
Somewhere in the Beta Quadrant
Lt. Gillis' consciousness returned slowly. She was disoriented, her mind foggy as if awakening from deep sleep.
“Oh God, what a weird dream,” she thought as she tried to focus her eyes in the darkness. Gillis attempted to call out, “lights,” but discovered she couldn't speak.
Nor could she move.
Now, the first tendrils of panic took hold as she realized she was no longer aboard the Adirondack. She tried to move her head, her arms, anything, but she was completely immobile. Yet, she could feel air movement across her body, so she probably had not suffered paralysis due to spinal injury. It was apparent, though, that her uniform had been removed and she lay bare on something not exactly hard but neither was it soft.
She closed her eyes again, forcing down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. Gillis' Starfleet training asserted itself . . . how to cope if taken prisoner. Of course, that was focused on captivity by the Cardassians or other familiar antagonists.
She had no idea who had taken her, or why?
Gillis began to concentrate on her senses . . . opening her eyes again, she realized the space was not totally dark, merely dim. Though she could not determine a light source, there was enough illumination to tell she was in a chamber of some sort. She could make out the ceiling, which was multi-faceted and a grayish-black. It curved away into walls, but she could not tell if there were any doorways with her limited perspective. Unable to move her head, she could only see within the peripheral range of her vision.
There was a smell in the air (breathable, thank God), like hot metal, sharp and unpleasant. She could hear nothing but her throbbing pulse through her ears. Once more, she tried to speak, but could only manage an inarticulate groan.
Looking down as far as she could manage, she ascertained that she was, indeed, unclothed, but there were no visible restraints within her line of sight. She was caught like a fly in amber.
There was no physical discomfort as such. As she could feel the flow of air, her nerve endings were functioning. But she could not even lift a finger. As a cadet, she had endured the unpleasant experience of receiving a phaser shot on light-stun. That had left her with a headache and an overall tingling sensation that lasted several minutes. This was nothing like that, nor was it like coming out of anesthesia. Whatever technology was being employed against her was beyond her understanding.
For the first time, she thought she heard something besides the pounding of her heart. There was a hum, melodic and intermittent, but definitely there. Interspersed were whistles and sighs. These did not seem to be mechanical noises . . . language, perhaps?
The humming grew louder as it grew closer. It sounded almost Human, but there was a quality that was alien in nature. Though she could not move, she felt gooseflesh rise on her skin.
From the ceiling above, something dark flowed downward. Puzzled, Gillis followed the movement with her eyes until it disappeared below her sight-line. Momentarily, the blackness reappeared, flowing upward and taking shape.
The alien was the stuff of nightmares, with a vaguely bi-pedal form, as if a toddler were given scissors and instructed to cut out the shape of a person from a sheet of black construction paper.
The being had a two-dimensional quality, comprised of strange angles, an asymmetrical caricature of a person with two arms, two legs, and a flattened trapezoid for a head. There were no digits or hands, for that matter. The head was featureless, lacking eyes, mouth, or any obvious sensory organs.
She remembered.
It was the creature that appeared in her quarters before she woke up in this place. It began to hum.
Despite her paralysis, Gillis discovered that she could scream.
* * *
Stardate 53854.6 (9 November 2376)
USS Bluefin NCC-4458
Molari Badlands
Castille awoke in darkness.
What just happened?
He remembered being in Sickbay, sitting by Lt. Gillis' bio-bed. Someone came in the cubicle . . .
No.
Not someone.
Something.
The memory spurred him to action, but he found he could not move.
Get a grip, Castille, he thought. He seemed to be uninjured, but he was trapped in an unfamiliar place. The CMO tried to rise, but found himself incapable of movement, though there did not seem to be any visible restraints.
A neural block of some sort, he surmised. Having survived the Dominion War, Castille learned that focus helped keep fear at bay, at least somewhat. Whoever . . . whatever had taken him captive had done him no physical harm thus far.
Could it be related to the strange vessel and the appearance of Lt. Gillis? Very likely, although the thought gave him little comfort, considering what they had discovered about the woman's horrific ordeal.
The space was tight. He had air to breathe, but it had a strange smell to it. If toxic, well, that was too bad, and holding his breath wasn't a viable option.
He had another realization. I am as naked as the day I was born. Castille was both nonplussed and amused by this discovery. Sucks to be on the wrong end of a science experiment.
That thought rang true. Could Lt. Gillis be the victim of an alien abduction, complete with science experiments? Such tales were common in the science fiction genre going back several hundred years. Castille had read a few such stories, though most were cringe-worthy pablum. THey usually took place on Earth during the 20th and 21st centuries, involving hapless Humans kidnapped by evil aliens, which performed bizarre experiments before returning the Earthlings home with only nightmares and vague recollections of their ordeal.
God, I hope anal probes aren't really a thing. He set aside thoughts of flying saucers and little green men, and concentrated once more on his surroundings. There was a metallic smell but no sounds or vibration. The thought of being in a coffin popped into his head, elevating his heart-rate and anxiety level.
Another thought struck him. The strange vessel in which we found Lt. Gillis . . . I think I'm in it.
* * *
Sickbay
Corpsman Sanders peered around the corner into the cubicle.
“Doc, are you in here?”
But Dr. Castille was nowhere to be found. Lt. Gillis was still in the bio-bed, her monitor beeping steadily.
“That's weird,” said Sanders to himself. “I could have sworn . . .”
Shrugging, he turned, only to hear a sound that stopped him in his tracks.
“Where . . .?”
Whirling, he saw that Lt. Gillis was awake, or at least her eyes were open. He moved quickly to her bedside. She followed his movement with her eyes, her brow furrowing in confusion.
“Hey,” he said, “You're okay, Lieutenant. We have you in Sickbay and we're taking good care of you.”
She frowned. “Sick . . . bay?”
Sanders nodded. “Yes ma'am. Hang on, I need to inform Dr. Castille.” He tapped his commbadge.
“Sanders to Dr. Castille.”
He waited, but there was no response. Sanders tried again but with the same results. Shaking his head in frustration, he tapped the commbadge again.
“Corpsman Sanders to Captain Akinola.”
“Akinola here, go ahead, Corpsman.”
“Skipper, Lt. Gillis is awake and speaking. I tried to reach Dr. Castille, but he hasn't responded.”
“Understood. I'm on my way; keep trying to reach Castille. Akinola, out.”
* * *
Hangar Deck
“Sir, it just . . . reappeared.”
A visibly perplexed Ensign Patel gestured to the aft end of the hangar deck. Lt. Commander Gralt stared at the mysterious vessel, once more in its original position and configuration. Except for the sensor logs, they would have no evidence that it had ever moved.
“Did you actually see it reappear, Patel?”
The Ensign grimaced. “Not exactly, sir. It wasn't there . . . I glanced down at the console for perhaps two seconds, then looked up . . . and there it was.” Patel braced himself for another tongue-lashing.
But Gralt was engrossed with the vessel. “Okay, Ensign. I want every sensor node on the hangar deck trained on that thing. If it so much as quivers, let me know.”
The Chief Engineer tapped his commbadge. “Gralt to Simms.”
“Simms, go ahead, Commander.”
“It's back.”
“And so is the sub-space dampening field. It was gone for just a couple of minutes.”
The Tellarite glanced back at the vessel. “I think I know the culprit.”
* * *
To Be Continued.
Stardate 30326.9 (30 April 2353)
Somewhere in the Beta Quadrant
Lt. Gillis' consciousness returned slowly. She was disoriented, her mind foggy as if awakening from deep sleep.
“Oh God, what a weird dream,” she thought as she tried to focus her eyes in the darkness. Gillis attempted to call out, “lights,” but discovered she couldn't speak.
Nor could she move.
Now, the first tendrils of panic took hold as she realized she was no longer aboard the Adirondack. She tried to move her head, her arms, anything, but she was completely immobile. Yet, she could feel air movement across her body, so she probably had not suffered paralysis due to spinal injury. It was apparent, though, that her uniform had been removed and she lay bare on something not exactly hard but neither was it soft.
She closed her eyes again, forcing down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. Gillis' Starfleet training asserted itself . . . how to cope if taken prisoner. Of course, that was focused on captivity by the Cardassians or other familiar antagonists.
She had no idea who had taken her, or why?
Gillis began to concentrate on her senses . . . opening her eyes again, she realized the space was not totally dark, merely dim. Though she could not determine a light source, there was enough illumination to tell she was in a chamber of some sort. She could make out the ceiling, which was multi-faceted and a grayish-black. It curved away into walls, but she could not tell if there were any doorways with her limited perspective. Unable to move her head, she could only see within the peripheral range of her vision.
There was a smell in the air (breathable, thank God), like hot metal, sharp and unpleasant. She could hear nothing but her throbbing pulse through her ears. Once more, she tried to speak, but could only manage an inarticulate groan.
Looking down as far as she could manage, she ascertained that she was, indeed, unclothed, but there were no visible restraints within her line of sight. She was caught like a fly in amber.
There was no physical discomfort as such. As she could feel the flow of air, her nerve endings were functioning. But she could not even lift a finger. As a cadet, she had endured the unpleasant experience of receiving a phaser shot on light-stun. That had left her with a headache and an overall tingling sensation that lasted several minutes. This was nothing like that, nor was it like coming out of anesthesia. Whatever technology was being employed against her was beyond her understanding.
For the first time, she thought she heard something besides the pounding of her heart. There was a hum, melodic and intermittent, but definitely there. Interspersed were whistles and sighs. These did not seem to be mechanical noises . . . language, perhaps?
The humming grew louder as it grew closer. It sounded almost Human, but there was a quality that was alien in nature. Though she could not move, she felt gooseflesh rise on her skin.
From the ceiling above, something dark flowed downward. Puzzled, Gillis followed the movement with her eyes until it disappeared below her sight-line. Momentarily, the blackness reappeared, flowing upward and taking shape.
The alien was the stuff of nightmares, with a vaguely bi-pedal form, as if a toddler were given scissors and instructed to cut out the shape of a person from a sheet of black construction paper.
The being had a two-dimensional quality, comprised of strange angles, an asymmetrical caricature of a person with two arms, two legs, and a flattened trapezoid for a head. There were no digits or hands, for that matter. The head was featureless, lacking eyes, mouth, or any obvious sensory organs.
She remembered.
It was the creature that appeared in her quarters before she woke up in this place. It began to hum.
Despite her paralysis, Gillis discovered that she could scream.
* * *
Stardate 53854.6 (9 November 2376)
USS Bluefin NCC-4458
Molari Badlands
Castille awoke in darkness.
What just happened?
He remembered being in Sickbay, sitting by Lt. Gillis' bio-bed. Someone came in the cubicle . . .
No.
Not someone.
Something.
The memory spurred him to action, but he found he could not move.
Get a grip, Castille, he thought. He seemed to be uninjured, but he was trapped in an unfamiliar place. The CMO tried to rise, but found himself incapable of movement, though there did not seem to be any visible restraints.
A neural block of some sort, he surmised. Having survived the Dominion War, Castille learned that focus helped keep fear at bay, at least somewhat. Whoever . . . whatever had taken him captive had done him no physical harm thus far.
Could it be related to the strange vessel and the appearance of Lt. Gillis? Very likely, although the thought gave him little comfort, considering what they had discovered about the woman's horrific ordeal.
The space was tight. He had air to breathe, but it had a strange smell to it. If toxic, well, that was too bad, and holding his breath wasn't a viable option.
He had another realization. I am as naked as the day I was born. Castille was both nonplussed and amused by this discovery. Sucks to be on the wrong end of a science experiment.
That thought rang true. Could Lt. Gillis be the victim of an alien abduction, complete with science experiments? Such tales were common in the science fiction genre going back several hundred years. Castille had read a few such stories, though most were cringe-worthy pablum. THey usually took place on Earth during the 20th and 21st centuries, involving hapless Humans kidnapped by evil aliens, which performed bizarre experiments before returning the Earthlings home with only nightmares and vague recollections of their ordeal.
God, I hope anal probes aren't really a thing. He set aside thoughts of flying saucers and little green men, and concentrated once more on his surroundings. There was a metallic smell but no sounds or vibration. The thought of being in a coffin popped into his head, elevating his heart-rate and anxiety level.
Another thought struck him. The strange vessel in which we found Lt. Gillis . . . I think I'm in it.
* * *
Sickbay
Corpsman Sanders peered around the corner into the cubicle.
“Doc, are you in here?”
But Dr. Castille was nowhere to be found. Lt. Gillis was still in the bio-bed, her monitor beeping steadily.
“That's weird,” said Sanders to himself. “I could have sworn . . .”
Shrugging, he turned, only to hear a sound that stopped him in his tracks.
“Where . . .?”
Whirling, he saw that Lt. Gillis was awake, or at least her eyes were open. He moved quickly to her bedside. She followed his movement with her eyes, her brow furrowing in confusion.
“Hey,” he said, “You're okay, Lieutenant. We have you in Sickbay and we're taking good care of you.”
She frowned. “Sick . . . bay?”
Sanders nodded. “Yes ma'am. Hang on, I need to inform Dr. Castille.” He tapped his commbadge.
“Sanders to Dr. Castille.”
He waited, but there was no response. Sanders tried again but with the same results. Shaking his head in frustration, he tapped the commbadge again.
“Corpsman Sanders to Captain Akinola.”
“Akinola here, go ahead, Corpsman.”
“Skipper, Lt. Gillis is awake and speaking. I tried to reach Dr. Castille, but he hasn't responded.”
“Understood. I'm on my way; keep trying to reach Castille. Akinola, out.”
* * *
Hangar Deck
“Sir, it just . . . reappeared.”
A visibly perplexed Ensign Patel gestured to the aft end of the hangar deck. Lt. Commander Gralt stared at the mysterious vessel, once more in its original position and configuration. Except for the sensor logs, they would have no evidence that it had ever moved.
“Did you actually see it reappear, Patel?”
The Ensign grimaced. “Not exactly, sir. It wasn't there . . . I glanced down at the console for perhaps two seconds, then looked up . . . and there it was.” Patel braced himself for another tongue-lashing.
But Gralt was engrossed with the vessel. “Okay, Ensign. I want every sensor node on the hangar deck trained on that thing. If it so much as quivers, let me know.”
The Chief Engineer tapped his commbadge. “Gralt to Simms.”
“Simms, go ahead, Commander.”
“It's back.”
“And so is the sub-space dampening field. It was gone for just a couple of minutes.”
The Tellarite glanced back at the vessel. “I think I know the culprit.”
* * *
To Be Continued.
For a moment there, I was half expecting the room Gillis was in to be filled with creepy clicking and a metal swing-arm to come into play
This is a mastery in ramping up suspense and mystery. Absolutely loved Castille's response to being abducted, other than Delta Sims, nothing seems to phase that man
This is a mastery in ramping up suspense and mystery. Absolutely loved Castille's response to being abducted, other than Delta Sims, nothing seems to phase that man
If Will Riker shows up in his pajamas, complaining about a lack of sleep, we'll all know I crossed the line.For a moment there, I was half expecting the room Gillis was in to be filled with creepy clicking and a metal swing-arm to come into play
However, this is an entirely different set of creepy aliens who randomly abduct people off starships to perform inexplicable experiments because shut-up. 
Castille is a tough guy with a soft heart. Hopefully he can maintain his composure in what lies ahead.This is a mastery in ramping up suspense and mystery. Absolutely loved Castille's response to being abducted, other than Delta Sims, nothing seems to phase that man
However, this is an entirely different set of creepy aliens who randomly abduct people off starships to perform inexplicable experiments because shut-up.
Sorry, ominous, clicking sub-space aliens are currently busy tormenting another United Trek crew ...
But boy, these guys could easily give those subspace dudes a run for their money as far as the creep-factor goes. Yikes.
Parallels abound in this tale which is bad news for Akinola and company. Gillis's ship was, ostensibly a science vessel, and if they couldn't figure this out in time what chance does a Border Service cutter have? Well, they may have the benefit of Gillis who may finally be available to share intel. They better get on with it though, something tells me the clock is ticking.
But boy, these guys could easily give those subspace dudes a run for their money as far as the creep-factor goes. Yikes.
Parallels abound in this tale which is bad news for Akinola and company. Gillis's ship was, ostensibly a science vessel, and if they couldn't figure this out in time what chance does a Border Service cutter have? Well, they may have the benefit of Gillis who may finally be available to share intel. They better get on with it though, something tells me the clock is ticking.
Chapter 8
Stardate 53854.7 (9 November 2376)
USS Bluefin NCC-4458
Molari Badlands
“Lt. Gillis . . . can you hear me?”
The voice . . . it wasn't a dream. Yet, Gillis feared disappointment as she had dreamed many times of being reunited with her shipmates.
Tentatively, she opened her eyes.
The man peering down at her appeared to be Human. He was tall, with dark skin and eyes of golden mahogany. His face was care-worn but kind. She could see concern in his expression.
There were four golden circlets on his collar. The uniform was unfamiliar, yet she immediately thought, “Starfleet.” Gillis noticed the commbadge, a Cochrane delta superimposed with crossed anchors.
Border Service, she realized. That must be why the uniform and rank insignia are different.
Akinola smiled when Gillis opened her eyes. “Lt. Gillis, I'm Captain Joseph Akinola, commanding officer of the Border Service cutter, Bluefin. You're currently in our sickbay, safe, and in good hands.”
Gillis tried to reply, but her voice was weak from long disuse. “My . . . ship . . . mates?”
She saw something in his eyes that told her what she feared. Nonetheless, the Captain forced a smile. “We'll talk soon, but you need a chance to regain your strength. Our CMO, Dr. Castille, is one of the best. Corpsman Sanders will keep an eye on you until the Doc has a chance to look in.”
Gillis forced a small nod and her eyes closed once more. Akinola stepped out of the cubicle to find a puzzled Sanders.
“Skipper, he's not responding to his Commbadge. I contacted Corpsman Rice and she went by to check Doc's cabin, but no answer.”
Akinola frowned, then tapped his commbadge. “Computer, locate Dr. Octavius Castille, authorization Akinola 14186 Theta.”
There was the briefest of pauses, then a small electronic chirp as the computer replied. “Dr. Castille is not on board the Bluefin.”
Akinola and Sanders stared at each other.
* * *
Word traveled quickly that the Bluefin's CMO was missing. Lt. Commander T'Ser initiated a maximum range scan in the unlikely event that Castille was somewhere outside the ship. Of course, if that had been the case, they would have only found his frozen corpse.
The transporter logs indicated that no one had beamed off or on the Bluefin since leaving Star Station Echo days earlier. The Star Stallions and work bees were in place in the hangar bay. No airlocks had cycled open since departing Echo station.
The legendary English detective, Sherlock Holmes, once told his biographer, Dr. John Watson, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
Thus the senior officers gathered once more on the hangar deck, their attention focused on the mysterious, dark vessel.
“He must be in there,” exclaimed T'Ser, having augmented internal sensors and reading the data on her PADD. “There's definitely a life-form inside . . . indeterminate as to what kind, but since we know Lt. Gillis is in Sickbay . . .”
“All other crew-members are accounted for,” agreed Commander Strauss. “It must be Dr. Castille.”
“It opened up the last time I touched it,” said Akinola. “Chances are, it will do it again.”
“Perhaps it was finished with Lt. Gillis and wanted a new Guinea Pig,” pointed out T'Ser. “For all we know, it might take you, too.”
“I'm willing to take that risk if it means getting Dr. Castille out of there,” the Captain snapped.
“T'Ser's right,” interjected Gralt. “Hells, we don't know what that thing is about, or if it's animal, vegetable, or mineral. You're out of your frelling mind to chance it.”
“Do you have a better idea, Commander?” challenged Akinola.
Gralt curled his lips, revealing sharp tusks. “No, dammit. But we can't afford to lose you, too.”
“I agree with Mr. Gralt,” chimed in Strauss. “It's too much of a risk.”
Akinola's features softened. “I appreciate your concern, but this isn't open for debate. The longer Castille is trapped in that thing . . . well . . . you know what happened to Lt. Gillis.”
* * *
The vessel did not probe Castille's anal cavity.
It did something far worse.
He gasped in surprise and shock as tiny, dark tendrils bored through his skull and into his brain. Once inside his gray matter, the tendrils branched out, each only a few molecules thick, probing, searching, analyzing, and occasionally, making repairs.
A weakened blood-vessel that would rupture and kill Castille in seven years without intervention, was stabilized and strengthened by one such tendril. Still another made repairs to minor flaws in his optic nerves, preventing the loss of visual accuity and the need for corrective drops. And yet another removed a lesion in his cerebral cortex that would likely lead to early onset dementia, if not discovered.
The repairs, while helpful (even life-saving), were not without pain. Although the brain itself lacks pain receptors, the same is not true of the scalp and subcutaneous nerve endings. To Castille, it felt like his scalp was being stung by hundreds of bees, yet he could not move in anyway to protect himself.
Mercifully, the probes receded in less than a minute, but to the Doctor, it felt like much longer. The probes left no visible marks, cauterizing any nicked capillaries as they exited. Tears streamed down his face as the burning agony settled into a throbbing ache.
Castille had no way of knowing that the probes had repaired the weakened vessel or his optic nerves or removed a lesion. He only knew something had invaded his skull and stripped away his calm demeanor, leaving him overwhelmed and on the verge of hysteria.
* * *
Akinola approached the black vessel with greater apprehension than the previous time. He had agreed to wearing a Type II flex-armor suit modified with sensor amplifiers. Should he find himself somehow trapped within the vessel, (though he doubted there was room for two), T'Ser would be able to monitor his vital signs and, perhaps, communicate with him.
In theory.
In reality, they still had no idea as to the composition of the vessel, how it could change shape and move about the ship without aid of a transporter. Nor did they know what was happening to Castille or what could happen to Akinola, should he also be trapped inside.
He tried not to think about that.
The Captain took some comfort in knowing that Lt. Gillis survived her time in the vessel and that Dr. Castille also still lived, assuming the Doctor was, in fact, in the vessel and not someone/something else.
T'Ser frowned at the PADD she held. Strauss noticed.
“What?”
“Aside from the fact that the Skipper's heart-rate is over 100, I'm picking up increased energy levels coming from the vessel.”
“Can you be a little more specific?” pressed Strauss.
T'Ser shook her head. “No. These are odd readings . . . maybe related to the subspace dampening field we're experiencing.”
“We should get him out of there.” Strauss turned to deactivate the containment field, but T'Ser caught her arm.
“Inga, let him do this.”
Strauss glared at the Vulcan, but relaxed and did not attempt to pull away. “I don't like it.”
“Neither do I,” agreed T'Ser.
* * *
Sick Bay
“Any word on Doc?” asked Corpsman Linda Rice as she entered Sickbay.
Sanders shook his head. “The Skipper is pretty sure he's caught in the same vessel where we found Lt. Gillis. Hope they can get him out in one piece,” he said, glumly.
Rice frowned. “Don't talk like that. They'll get him out okay.” She glanced toward the cubicle. “How's the patient?”
Sanders sighed. “In and out of consciousness. She responded to the Skipper a little, but drifted off again. Vitals are stable and no more screaming fits.”
He noted the stricken expression on Rice's face. “Sorry, Rice, that wasn't your fault, you know.”
“Yeah, right,” she replied, not convinced. “I'll go look in on her.”
Sanders shrugged. “Be my guest. Not much else we can do until Doc shows up.”
Rice picked up her medical PADD and walked into the cubicle holding Lt. Gillis, being very careful not to hum. Gillis lay still, as usual, with her eyes closed. But unlike previous times, Rice noted her eyes moving rapidly back and forth under her lids.
Gillis was dreaming.
* * *
In her dream, Gillis stood on a vast savanna. A wind blew, creating ripples in the tall grass that extended toward the horizon. Twin moons loomed overhead in the twilight, as clouds moved quickly across the violet sky.
She was again wearing her Starfleet uniform, though she had no idea when she put it on or from whence it came. Her shadow extended well beyond her as the blue sun settled behind her.
Another shadow joined hers.
Except, it wasn't a shadow.
Gillis was neither surprised nor afraid of her strange captor. In this place, the angular, featureless alien had little more substance than the wind or a shadow. The Lieutenant gazed at it, curious and a bit impatient.
“Well?” she finally asked."Are you going to say anything?"
The humming no longer evoked terror. She listened, frowning, trying to understand.
The humming morphed into a sigh, then a whisper, barely audible above the wind that stirred the grassland.
[It. Is. Done. You. Repaired. Home. Close. Now.]
The words were disjointed and clipped, lacking the flowing melody that was the alien's natural language. Yet Gillis understood, at least partly, as the words were not audible, but in her mind.
“Why did you do this? And what did you repair? I wasn't sick.”
The featureless angular head twisted slightly, perhaps in puzzlement, perhaps in amusement.
[You. Repaired. Others. Not. Regret.]
Others, not . . .
“My shipmates . . . my friends . . . what happened to them?” She could feel the grief and anger rise within her.
[Others. Not. Regret.] There was a pause, and the alien form rippled as tendrils flowed from it toward Gillis. To her surprise, she was not afraid and made no effort to evade them.
The tendrils moved about her head, gently caressing her hair before lightly landing on her skull.
And bored in.
This time, there was no pain, unlike the radical surgery she underwent without benefit of any anesthesia or pain killers. At least in this dream, those memories were veiled, as though the unspeakable agony of having bones and organs surgically replaced was experienced by someone else.
The tendrils connected. She/It remembered together.
The aliens who sent out the dark ship were the [unintelligible] from another galaxy.The figure before her was an artificial construct, a physical manifestation of the vessel they had encountered.
Images poured into her mind, too fast to fully process. She gained impressions of a cataclysmic war with monstrous machines of destruction, cone-shaped destroyers of worlds, miles long, that seemed somehow familiar. They clashed with gigantic cube-shaped machines that were unknown to her but elicited a visceral fear . . . Resistance is futile . . .
And dark, multi-faceted ships that followed in the aftermath of epic battles like scavengers . . .
No.
That wasn't right.
The same race that built and unleashed Neutronium planet killers equipped with world-shredding anti-proton beams also created . . .
Hospital ships?
[Repair. You. Others. Regret]
She understood . At least, partly. But the understanding brought no comfort, no closure.
They had received unwanted and unneeded 'mercy' from a sentient hospital ship that had never encountered humans and had no concept of physical pain. Somehow separated from its creators and thousands of light-years from its home system, its programming became corrupted. In its directive to “repair,” it had inadvertently murdered nearly all of Adirondack's crew. Somehow, Gillis, had survived their experiments.
Lt. Gillis awoke and sat up for the first time in over twenty years, her chest heaving with emotion as she gasped in lung-fulls of air. Corpsman Rice took a step backward in surprise.
Gillis fixed the corpsman with a surprisingly intense gaze.
“I need to speak to your Captain . . . NOW!”
* * *
To Be Continued.
Stardate 53854.7 (9 November 2376)
USS Bluefin NCC-4458
Molari Badlands
“Lt. Gillis . . . can you hear me?”
The voice . . . it wasn't a dream. Yet, Gillis feared disappointment as she had dreamed many times of being reunited with her shipmates.
Tentatively, she opened her eyes.
The man peering down at her appeared to be Human. He was tall, with dark skin and eyes of golden mahogany. His face was care-worn but kind. She could see concern in his expression.
There were four golden circlets on his collar. The uniform was unfamiliar, yet she immediately thought, “Starfleet.” Gillis noticed the commbadge, a Cochrane delta superimposed with crossed anchors.
Border Service, she realized. That must be why the uniform and rank insignia are different.
Akinola smiled when Gillis opened her eyes. “Lt. Gillis, I'm Captain Joseph Akinola, commanding officer of the Border Service cutter, Bluefin. You're currently in our sickbay, safe, and in good hands.”
Gillis tried to reply, but her voice was weak from long disuse. “My . . . ship . . . mates?”
She saw something in his eyes that told her what she feared. Nonetheless, the Captain forced a smile. “We'll talk soon, but you need a chance to regain your strength. Our CMO, Dr. Castille, is one of the best. Corpsman Sanders will keep an eye on you until the Doc has a chance to look in.”
Gillis forced a small nod and her eyes closed once more. Akinola stepped out of the cubicle to find a puzzled Sanders.
“Skipper, he's not responding to his Commbadge. I contacted Corpsman Rice and she went by to check Doc's cabin, but no answer.”
Akinola frowned, then tapped his commbadge. “Computer, locate Dr. Octavius Castille, authorization Akinola 14186 Theta.”
There was the briefest of pauses, then a small electronic chirp as the computer replied. “Dr. Castille is not on board the Bluefin.”
Akinola and Sanders stared at each other.
* * *
Word traveled quickly that the Bluefin's CMO was missing. Lt. Commander T'Ser initiated a maximum range scan in the unlikely event that Castille was somewhere outside the ship. Of course, if that had been the case, they would have only found his frozen corpse.
The transporter logs indicated that no one had beamed off or on the Bluefin since leaving Star Station Echo days earlier. The Star Stallions and work bees were in place in the hangar bay. No airlocks had cycled open since departing Echo station.
The legendary English detective, Sherlock Holmes, once told his biographer, Dr. John Watson, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
Thus the senior officers gathered once more on the hangar deck, their attention focused on the mysterious, dark vessel.
“He must be in there,” exclaimed T'Ser, having augmented internal sensors and reading the data on her PADD. “There's definitely a life-form inside . . . indeterminate as to what kind, but since we know Lt. Gillis is in Sickbay . . .”
“All other crew-members are accounted for,” agreed Commander Strauss. “It must be Dr. Castille.”
“It opened up the last time I touched it,” said Akinola. “Chances are, it will do it again.”
“Perhaps it was finished with Lt. Gillis and wanted a new Guinea Pig,” pointed out T'Ser. “For all we know, it might take you, too.”
“I'm willing to take that risk if it means getting Dr. Castille out of there,” the Captain snapped.
“T'Ser's right,” interjected Gralt. “Hells, we don't know what that thing is about, or if it's animal, vegetable, or mineral. You're out of your frelling mind to chance it.”
“Do you have a better idea, Commander?” challenged Akinola.
Gralt curled his lips, revealing sharp tusks. “No, dammit. But we can't afford to lose you, too.”
“I agree with Mr. Gralt,” chimed in Strauss. “It's too much of a risk.”
Akinola's features softened. “I appreciate your concern, but this isn't open for debate. The longer Castille is trapped in that thing . . . well . . . you know what happened to Lt. Gillis.”
* * *
The vessel did not probe Castille's anal cavity.
It did something far worse.
He gasped in surprise and shock as tiny, dark tendrils bored through his skull and into his brain. Once inside his gray matter, the tendrils branched out, each only a few molecules thick, probing, searching, analyzing, and occasionally, making repairs.
A weakened blood-vessel that would rupture and kill Castille in seven years without intervention, was stabilized and strengthened by one such tendril. Still another made repairs to minor flaws in his optic nerves, preventing the loss of visual accuity and the need for corrective drops. And yet another removed a lesion in his cerebral cortex that would likely lead to early onset dementia, if not discovered.
The repairs, while helpful (even life-saving), were not without pain. Although the brain itself lacks pain receptors, the same is not true of the scalp and subcutaneous nerve endings. To Castille, it felt like his scalp was being stung by hundreds of bees, yet he could not move in anyway to protect himself.
Mercifully, the probes receded in less than a minute, but to the Doctor, it felt like much longer. The probes left no visible marks, cauterizing any nicked capillaries as they exited. Tears streamed down his face as the burning agony settled into a throbbing ache.
Castille had no way of knowing that the probes had repaired the weakened vessel or his optic nerves or removed a lesion. He only knew something had invaded his skull and stripped away his calm demeanor, leaving him overwhelmed and on the verge of hysteria.
* * *
Akinola approached the black vessel with greater apprehension than the previous time. He had agreed to wearing a Type II flex-armor suit modified with sensor amplifiers. Should he find himself somehow trapped within the vessel, (though he doubted there was room for two), T'Ser would be able to monitor his vital signs and, perhaps, communicate with him.
In theory.
In reality, they still had no idea as to the composition of the vessel, how it could change shape and move about the ship without aid of a transporter. Nor did they know what was happening to Castille or what could happen to Akinola, should he also be trapped inside.
He tried not to think about that.
The Captain took some comfort in knowing that Lt. Gillis survived her time in the vessel and that Dr. Castille also still lived, assuming the Doctor was, in fact, in the vessel and not someone/something else.
T'Ser frowned at the PADD she held. Strauss noticed.
“What?”
“Aside from the fact that the Skipper's heart-rate is over 100, I'm picking up increased energy levels coming from the vessel.”
“Can you be a little more specific?” pressed Strauss.
T'Ser shook her head. “No. These are odd readings . . . maybe related to the subspace dampening field we're experiencing.”
“We should get him out of there.” Strauss turned to deactivate the containment field, but T'Ser caught her arm.
“Inga, let him do this.”
Strauss glared at the Vulcan, but relaxed and did not attempt to pull away. “I don't like it.”
“Neither do I,” agreed T'Ser.
* * *
Sick Bay
“Any word on Doc?” asked Corpsman Linda Rice as she entered Sickbay.
Sanders shook his head. “The Skipper is pretty sure he's caught in the same vessel where we found Lt. Gillis. Hope they can get him out in one piece,” he said, glumly.
Rice frowned. “Don't talk like that. They'll get him out okay.” She glanced toward the cubicle. “How's the patient?”
Sanders sighed. “In and out of consciousness. She responded to the Skipper a little, but drifted off again. Vitals are stable and no more screaming fits.”
He noted the stricken expression on Rice's face. “Sorry, Rice, that wasn't your fault, you know.”
“Yeah, right,” she replied, not convinced. “I'll go look in on her.”
Sanders shrugged. “Be my guest. Not much else we can do until Doc shows up.”
Rice picked up her medical PADD and walked into the cubicle holding Lt. Gillis, being very careful not to hum. Gillis lay still, as usual, with her eyes closed. But unlike previous times, Rice noted her eyes moving rapidly back and forth under her lids.
Gillis was dreaming.
* * *
In her dream, Gillis stood on a vast savanna. A wind blew, creating ripples in the tall grass that extended toward the horizon. Twin moons loomed overhead in the twilight, as clouds moved quickly across the violet sky.
She was again wearing her Starfleet uniform, though she had no idea when she put it on or from whence it came. Her shadow extended well beyond her as the blue sun settled behind her.
Another shadow joined hers.
Except, it wasn't a shadow.
Gillis was neither surprised nor afraid of her strange captor. In this place, the angular, featureless alien had little more substance than the wind or a shadow. The Lieutenant gazed at it, curious and a bit impatient.
“Well?” she finally asked."Are you going to say anything?"
The humming no longer evoked terror. She listened, frowning, trying to understand.
The humming morphed into a sigh, then a whisper, barely audible above the wind that stirred the grassland.
[It. Is. Done. You. Repaired. Home. Close. Now.]
The words were disjointed and clipped, lacking the flowing melody that was the alien's natural language. Yet Gillis understood, at least partly, as the words were not audible, but in her mind.
“Why did you do this? And what did you repair? I wasn't sick.”
The featureless angular head twisted slightly, perhaps in puzzlement, perhaps in amusement.
[You. Repaired. Others. Not. Regret.]
Others, not . . .
“My shipmates . . . my friends . . . what happened to them?” She could feel the grief and anger rise within her.
[Others. Not. Regret.] There was a pause, and the alien form rippled as tendrils flowed from it toward Gillis. To her surprise, she was not afraid and made no effort to evade them.
The tendrils moved about her head, gently caressing her hair before lightly landing on her skull.
And bored in.
This time, there was no pain, unlike the radical surgery she underwent without benefit of any anesthesia or pain killers. At least in this dream, those memories were veiled, as though the unspeakable agony of having bones and organs surgically replaced was experienced by someone else.
The tendrils connected. She/It remembered together.
The aliens who sent out the dark ship were the [unintelligible] from another galaxy.The figure before her was an artificial construct, a physical manifestation of the vessel they had encountered.
Images poured into her mind, too fast to fully process. She gained impressions of a cataclysmic war with monstrous machines of destruction, cone-shaped destroyers of worlds, miles long, that seemed somehow familiar. They clashed with gigantic cube-shaped machines that were unknown to her but elicited a visceral fear . . . Resistance is futile . . .
And dark, multi-faceted ships that followed in the aftermath of epic battles like scavengers . . .
No.
That wasn't right.
The same race that built and unleashed Neutronium planet killers equipped with world-shredding anti-proton beams also created . . .
Hospital ships?
[Repair. You. Others. Regret]
She understood . At least, partly. But the understanding brought no comfort, no closure.
They had received unwanted and unneeded 'mercy' from a sentient hospital ship that had never encountered humans and had no concept of physical pain. Somehow separated from its creators and thousands of light-years from its home system, its programming became corrupted. In its directive to “repair,” it had inadvertently murdered nearly all of Adirondack's crew. Somehow, Gillis, had survived their experiments.
Lt. Gillis awoke and sat up for the first time in over twenty years, her chest heaving with emotion as she gasped in lung-fulls of air. Corpsman Rice took a step backward in surprise.
Gillis fixed the corpsman with a surprisingly intense gaze.
“I need to speak to your Captain . . . NOW!”
* * *
To Be Continued.
Okay, I had my share of theories on this story. This was definitely not one of them. A corrupted hospital ship trying to fix human patients they do not fully understand? What could go wrong? Clearly everything. And now, Castile and the rest of the Bluefin crew may be at the mercy of these well intentioned but very deadly aliens.
Similar threads
