Synthesis - James Swallow [77]
“Those are a match for the echo patterns I detected out at the ‘sandbank’ where we found the wreckage of White-Blue’s vessel.” Her earlier concerns were abruptly forgotten; now Melora was all business. “The instance of highest density intersects with the orbit of the sixth planet, the Class-Pice world.”
“And as you can see, the levels are rising. I believe we could be seeing the formation of a new spatial rift. A softening of the barriers between normal space and subspace realms.”
“Like a pre-echo…” The lieutenant felt a rush of cold over her skin. “Computer,” she said to the air, “extrapolate from these readings and run an accelerated event simulation.”
Melora gave the command through force of habit, and she expected to hear the precise tones of the Starfleet standard voice interface respond to her; instead, it was the avatar who answered. “I have already done so. Observe.”
In the holodisplay, the range of particle intrusion spiked and flared, creating a rip across the darkness, but the image held only for a heartbeat before it froze, red status warning flags flashing into life.
“Predictive software cannot extrapolate past this point,” explained the hologram. “The force behind the incursion is unknown.”
“We have to warn them,” Melora breathed. She tapped her combadge. “Bridge—”
“I’m already there,” said the avatar.
“Vale here,” came the reply. “Melora? What’s wrong? The… avatar just appeared right in front of me.”
The hologram spoke, and Melora heard the echo of the same voice over the open intercom channel. “Something is coming.”
“McCreedy to Tuvok.” The Vulcan cocked his head to listen to the words filtering up from his communicator. Below, he saw the lieutenant waving up at him from the conning tower hatch of the Sentry tanker. “Loading is complete. We’re ready to head back to the spacedock.”
“Proceed, Lieutenant. We’ll follow you in the shuttlecraft.”
“Aye, sir. McCreedy out.” The woman had barely disappeared onto the hatch before the ungainly transport ship rose off the docking gantry and pulled away soundlessly on a flare of thrust. The worker drones that had managed the loading of the egg-shaped deuterium pods scattered like frightened birds, moving away toward whatever new taskings their programs demanded.
“The operation is concluded,” said Cyan-Gray. “Interrogative: Was it performed to your satisfaction?”
“The process was adequate,” admitted Tuvok. In fact, the efficiency of the AIs and their robotic drones had been slowed somewhat by the intervention of the engineering team, and the Vulcan imagined that had they been left to their own devices, the tanking would have taken less than half the elapsed time. But the involvement of the Starfleet crew here was an important symbolic gesture, if nothing else, reinforcing Captain Riker’s desire to take an active hand in the Titan’s repairs.
As he was about to turn away, a change flowed over every drone and remote in his line of sight, a wave of changing intention that recalled the manner in which flocks of avians shifted course in flight. Every one of the signal-light indicators dotted around the facility turned white and began to flash the same code of pulses, a series of two flashes followed by a single.
“You must egress the refinery immediately,” said the remote. It moved swiftly away, toward the far hatch. “Do not question this directive! It is for your own safety!”
Pava had her weapon in her hand, alerted by the same silent alarms that Tuvok had noted. “What’s going on? Are we under attack?”
“An incursion is forming,” said the AI. “The Null is here.”
“What in Prime’s name is that?” Dakal raised a hand to shield his eyes from the searing gash of churning color that was growing out beyond the rim of the refinery platform.
When Cyan-Gray’s remote didn’t answer, he turned