Surak's Soul - J.M. Dillard [50]
Archer made it down the corridor toward the turbolift, with the thought of heading up to engineering….
But as he neared the lift doors, their color changed from off-white to blue-green. The air in front of them began to swirl and ripple, like the crashing of waves in a turbulent sea….
“Wanderer,” Archer said aloud, his tone flinty with hate. “Get out of my way.”
It was a futile command, of course; the creature remained, shimmering, growing larger until it blocked the entire corridor. Archer was left with no way to advance, only retreat.
But anger and determination would not permit him to do so. Gently, he knelt on one knee, then carefully lowered the ensign to the deck.
It was time to discover exactly how truthful Wanderer had been. No one, after all, had touched the creature in order to know what the effect would be. And all of Wanderer’s attacks had apparently occurred without direct contact with its victim. Wanderer had been careful to request right away that no one touch it.
Was it possible that it had to be careful to absorb only so much energy at one time? What would happen if it accidentally was exposed to too much?
Archer rose, drew a deep breath, then rushed the creature.
The instant he entered Wanderer was palpable: The ship around him dissolved, and the world turned blue-green, dazzling, electric. The hair on Archer’s head and body stood straight upright; the skin on his forearms, his back, and the backs of his legs turned to gooseflesh. And then he was blinded—not by darkness, but by light, white brilliance, that shot up from the base of his spine straight up through the top of his skull. He felt caught up by a current—a current of electricity, a current of water, of oceans and tides, that pulled him along and spun him, round and round till he cried out and lost all sense of himself….
A clap of thunder. Archer was heaved to the deck, hard, his skull connecting with metal so swift and fast that the pain was no more than a flash, bright and hot, before the darkness came.
Nine
CHARLES “TRIP” TUCKER had a natural tendency to be good-humored, even during crises, or times when he didn’t get much sleep; but the way things were going at the moment, every shred of Tucker’s good nature had long ago vanished. They were stacked like sardines in engineering, and the radiant body heat was making Trip start to sweat; apparently, the environmental computer had failed to compensate for the crowding. A handful of crew members sat outside the closed door in the corridor, waiting their turn to come stand inside the safety of engineering. Given T’Pol’s determination (and obvious lack of concern for the human concept of personal space), she’d managed to get more people than Trip had thought possible into engineering. He had to give her credit; but at the same time, he longed for some room to stretch out so he could think.
It didn’t help matters that the dozens of people surrounding him were all talking to ward off the boredom and anxiety; snippets of conversation drifted down from the overhead deck, as well, where uniformed personnel were practically hanging off the railings. Trip was used to quiet, and the hum of his engines, and all these people in such a small amount of space were starting to drive him crazy. Dr. Phlox was conscious and alert now, on his feet, and speculating about the nature of Wanderer and its effect on Denobulans and humans with an enthusiasm that grated.
Mayweather, standing rather than sitting at the nearest computer console because there simply wasn’t room, turned to T’Pol beside him. The two were a mere arm’s stretch from Tucker and Reed, so it was impossible for Trip to ignore the conversation.
“It just isn’t responding, Sub-Commander. We’re still headed for Earth, no matter what overrides I try….”
“Same here,” Hoshi chimed in from a nearby companel. “All communications frequencies are jammed.”
Until Archer returned, T’Pol was in charge, monitoring the ship’s condition and seeing to it that officers in engineering regularly traded places with those