The Devil's Heart - Carmen Carter [23]
He tapped the communicator on his chest.
“Picard to Data What is the status of your current project?”
“I have not yet concluded my investigation, but there is sufficient progress to warrant your attention.”
“Thank you, Data. I’m on my way to the bridge.” The captain rose from behind his desk.
“Doctor, I think you should hear this, too.”
Riker’s steps echoed loudly as he crossed the deck of Cargo Bay 12. The loading crew was gone, as was the fleet of airsleds they had driven into the spacious hold. After a brief frenzy of activity, Worf’s team had left behind a tidy mountain of faceted shipping cartons.
Each carton had a number stenciled on its surface, and as Riker entered that number into his data padd, the tablet’s display screen revealed the contents stored inside. The first series included tents, computers, dating scanners, thermal sensors, laser drills, and sonic picks. Every last stake and stray piece of rope had been gathered up and packed away.
Next, Riker checked through the artifacts uncovered by the excavations shards of pottery and statuary, broken weapons, small pieces of jewelry. These were the discarded remnants of a society, not its treasures. According to the captain, it was from precisely this sort of detritus that most archaeologists teased their understanding of a culture, and T’Sara had displayed a genius for making these extrapolations.
The last two cartons were filled with items found in the archaeologists’ living quarters.
Vulcans were not a materialistic race, so the list Riker scanned was spare and consisted mostly of clothes and books. Even after their long tenure on the planet, the scientists had made no attempt to decorate their tents with frivolous trinkets; every personal article was utilitarian in purpose and discreetly labeled with the owner’s name.
Upon a second glance, however, the first officer noticed that every member of the team possessed a pocket holo. So, at the end of a long day of excavation and research, even Vulcans wanted reminders of home and family.
Three of them had brought musical instruments as well. Riker envisioned a small group of tired men and women gathered together under the stars, listening to the soft strains of a lyre and a flute. The scene made the knowledge of their deaths more poignant, almost painful, but it helped to overshadow his memories of contorted bodies mired in blood.
With a final tap on the padd’s controls, Riker transferred the confirmed manifest into the starship’s main computers. Nothing of the Vulcans remained below on Atropos. Their decade-long presence had been completely erased.
“Sorren’s distress call appears to have been altered in several ways,” said Data. “The first modification was to the identification slate.”
Picard automatically leaned closer to the science station, then shifted slightly to allow Crusher an unobstructed view of the screen. The circular seal of the United Federation of Planets—a field of stars flanked by olive branches—floated on a blue background; below the logo was a small block of text.
The two officers studied the slate and its standard display of information about Sorren’s message.
Origin UFP 567045-B12-10A (atropos) Destination UFP 567045-B23-22C (starbase 193) Stardate 45873.4
“I see nothing out of the ordinary,” said Picard as he exchanged puzzled looks with the doctor.
“At first, neither did I,” said the android.
“However, when I examined the transmission envelope I discovered a discrepancy in the date stamp. Since the envelope is usually accessed only by the transceiver hardware, its information is never visible to the recipient of the message.”
With quick, practiced movements, Data unzipped the coded interface and called forth a dense stream of unformatted data. Numbers flew by more quickly than Picard could follow until suddenly Data froze the image. His pointing finger highlighted the pertinent section of a line.
FMCCUFP567045-B12-10Ast-TOCCUFP567045-B23-22C/SD-45873.3 “45873.3,