A Vision of Future Past

Previously on Jedi/Superman...
Last Son of the Republic
Growing Up Under Twin Suns
Chariot of the Gods
The Emperor's New Genocide
The Quality of Mercy
A Job for Supermen
The Green, Green Glow of Homicide
A Dream of Droids

From the cockpit of his fighter, Luke Skywalker sensed, of course, that Leia planned to surrender; he knew it before the transmission even reached his headset. Therefore, his only course of action was to disobey that final order to rendezvous with the fleet. He would save the Princess and the others from themselves somehow. . .

No. That was the voice of his younger, undisciplined self. He couldn’t just charge off like some gladiator from the old stories. Retreat was the order, and it was a sensible one. The remnants of the fleet could regroup—he and Wedge and Biggs would come up with a rescue plan—they could save Ben and the princess and the others before—

Obey this order you must not. Trust your feelings, seize this act of Defiance. 

Luke’s eyes went wide.

Master Yoda..? 

Luke wept. It was impossible; Yoda had been gone for years. But he felt the Master’s presence like a warm essence all around him.

Time for questions I have not. Is difficult to reach across so much time and space. Stand with your father. Stand with your brother. Stand with the princess. And beware the dark heart of Krypton—beware…! 

The voice faded as if exhausted. “Master Yoda?” Luke called into his cockpit. “Master, come back! The dark heart of Krypton…what is the dark heart of Krypton?”

But there was nothing more. Luke knew what he must do next.

He deactivated his communications systems and used the Force to mask his X-Wing’s emissions. Poor R9-D8 couldn’t even protest; he’d been fried by a TIE blaster bolt early in the losing battle for Yavin. But in some ways that made his next task easier.

As luck—or the Force—would have it, the Defiance wasn’t far away in astronomical terms. Luke set a course for the frigate and flew it into the open hangar bay well before the frigate entered visual range of the nearest Imperial ship’s sensors. And just in time, too; the hangar doors immediately slid closed just as a large escort of TIE fighters formed up to lead the frigate into the Empire’s clutches.

Luke hurried to the bridge, much to the consternation of Princess Leia and General Dodonna. Ben Kenobi only sighed in resignation.

“I gave all pilots a direct order to retreat and rendezvous,” Leia fumed, poking Luke in the chest with one regal finger.

“I couldn’t abandon you,” Luke replied, his eyes soft and infuriatingly sincere. Leia threw up her hands and turned away to stare out the window, watching the Death Star and its squadron of Star Destroyers loom steadily larger. General Dodonna joined her, and the two talked in muted voices about next steps.

“Well, we’re in the lion’s den now, my boy,” Kenobi said. “What possessed you to return?”

Even in these circumstances, Luke couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

“Ben…Master Yoda spoke to me. Just now. He spoke to me.”

Kenobi was stunned. He’d heard legends of Jedi Knights past transcending the barrier between life and the dark eternity, but he’d never taken the old tales seriously. The Force was powerful indeed, but powerful enough to reach from beyond the grave..?

But he could sense the truth radiating from Luke. “What did he say?”

“He told me I had to come here, to stand with you. With all of you,” he gestured. “But…is Clark all right? The Death Star had a bead on him…”

“He’s fine,” Kenobi said. “I hid him below to recover. The radiation did terrible damage to him, but just a short time in bacta revived him. Miraculous. But I felt you reach out to pull him from the beam’s path, Luke. He would not have survived if you hadn’t intervened.”

Luke sighed, relieved. But then he remembered the last thing Yoda had said.

“Ben…what is the dark heart of Krypton?”

The Green, Green Glow of Homicide

Previously on Jedi/Superman...

Last Son of the Republic
Growing Up under Twin Suns
Chariot of the Gods

The Emperor's New Genocide

The Quality of Mercy
A Job for Supermen


Yavin IV

The Death Star loomed, a malevolent steel moon with one ugly, unblinking eye looking down over the Rebel base, last bastion of freedom and justice in the galaxy. Clark, fists clenched, his own deadly eyes glowing with righteous fury, hurtled toward that Cyclopean menace.

A light-second away, his targeting scope fixed on a jinking TIE fighter, Luke Skywalker flinched. He sensed something—something imminent, something catastrophic.

Clark. The Death Star was targeting Clark. And Clark was flying right into their path.

The TIE fighter slipped away. He could hear Biggs chiding him over the intercom, but the TIE didn’t matter. Luke closed his eyes, searched for Clark’s life essence out there in the black, found it, and pulled.

Clark’s eyes widened in surprise as he was suddenly wrenched off course. In that instant, the supercannon fired.

The emerald beam missed Clark by dozens of metres. Even so, the pain of the radiation washing over him was unbearable. Clark shrieked into the void, his flesh seared. Mercifully, he lost consciousness. The beam continued its course, shearing a Rebel frigate in half, spilling dozens of hapless crew into the cold interstellar void.

Death Star Bridge

Vader turned to face the tactical director. “You missed.”

“The targeting sensors on a laser this massive aren’t intended for targets of this..!”

The tactical director’s protest was cut off with a guttural cry and the dry crackling of suddenly traumatized bone and muscle. The man fell without a further word to the deck.

Vader unclenched his fist.

“I’ll have the supercannon ready to fire again in twenty minutes, Lord Vader!” cried the tactical director’s immediate underling.

“Ten,” hissed Vader.

“Ten, aye, ten!”

Tarkin clucked in disapproval. “Vader, control yourself. I can’t have you executing every man that makes a mistake. It’s bad for morale. We are, after all, trying to restore order to the galaxy. These men are idealists.”

“But far from ideal,” Vader grumbled.

“Take heart, Lord Vader. The Rebellion is being wiped out before our eyes. Even if this…being you’re obsessed with survives, how much damage can he do alone?”

 On the viewscreen, Rebel ships burned under the immense firepower of the Imperial fleet.

Nebulon-B escort frigate Defiance

Leia’s stomach fell as the Imperial assault steadily decimated their already small fleet of soon-to-be galactic refugees. General Dodonna was doing his best to provide cover for the GR-75 transports to make the jump to lightspeed, but so far only two had gotten away; they’d lost two others, along with their only other frigate.

Swarms of TIEs flung themselves at the pitiful collection of some four dozen Rebel starfighters. For every Rebel starfighter that blossomed into the flame of defeat, ten TIEs were blown from the stars. But even at that kill ratio, they were doomed. There were just too many Imperials.

Ben Kenobi placed a gentle hand on Leia’s shoulder. He felt Clark’s agony and gasped, but composed himself quickly. See Threepio, golden-hued protocol droid and perennial annoyance, looked on curiously.

“He lives,” Kenobi whispered. “Well done, Luke. Well done, my boy.”

Leia glanced over at her old mentor. “Obi-Wan, what is it..?”

“Leia, there is still hope. But we must make a desperate gamble.”

Ben told Leia what was at stake. Leia glanced at the mission monitor board: another three GR-75s had jumped to hyperspace, but only two dozen starfighters were still flying. Two more GR-75s were edging closer and closer to escape.

“Starfighters, this is Princess Leia. Retreat immediately. Get those last ships away and head for the rendezvous point. We’ll cover you.”

“We’re doomed!” cried Threepio.

Biggs Darklighter’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Princess, one frigate can’t possibly survive alone!”

“You heard me, Red Three. May the Force be with you!”

Yavin System

From his cockpit, Biggs watched as the Defiance wheeled about, engines glowing white-hot as she burned toward no coordinates that made sense to him. Whatever she was doing, it was drawing a lot of fire from the Star Destroyers; he could see the frigate’s shields flaring, ready to buckle.

Biggs grimaced and turned his full attention back to the battle, howling vengeance as he blasted another TIE to atoms.

“Nice shooting, Biggs,” Wedge called, even as he himself torpedoed an Imperial gunship. “Everybody form up on the GR-75s. We’re getting out of here. For the Defiance!”

Biggs whooped along with everyone else—until his stomach suddenly dropped. Luke hadn’t joined that Rebel yell.

“Red Five, come in. Luke, where are you?”

Defiance Bridge

Dodonna, Leia, Kenobi and Threepio held on for their lives as the bridge of the Defiance rattled and bucked, the frigate’s shields dangerously close to failing entirely under the onslaught of energy directed at them from all sides.

“Is that your man?” Dodonna said, pointing at the tumbling figure outside. It looked like just another floating casualty, but his faith in General Kenobi and the Princess was deep.

Kenobi nodded. “Please, General, reel him in.”

The frigate groaned in protest, but its grapple shot out and snagged Clark’s limp form easily, pulling him through a dorsal hatch. Two medical droids and a human nurse quickly hauled the burned husk to sickbay, though the nurse expressed silent doubts that anything could be done to save the charred thing they brought aboard. The droids dunked the near-corpse into a tank of bacta nonetheless, even as the ship’s first officer called yet again for damage control personnel to reinforce the shields. As if that could make any difference…

On the bridge, Leia watched as the last of the transports and starfighters jumped to safety. She shared a glance with Obi-Wan and Dodonna, then pressed the ship-to-ship communications controls.

“Imperial fleet, this is Princess Leia aboard the Rebel Alliance frigate Defiance. We surrender.”

That's One Way to End a Five-Year Mission

Well - not bad! Especially for a fan/semiprofessional production. The end of the Enterprise's five-year mission has been covered in the comics, novels and fan fiction, but "To Boldly Go" feels like a fitting end, dovetailing with "Where No Man Has Gone Before," bringing the show full circle. On the other hand, it could be argued that a show like Star Trek should have ended with the voyages continuing...as indeed, one could argue, they have.

I remain amazed by the talent of these volunteers, who do a very credible job of replicating 1960s-era Star Trek, sometimes even bettering the production value. Even the acting has improved over time, and somehow the producers manage to convince actual SF authors to produce teleplays. What a time to be alive. 

The Beginning of the End for Star Trek Continues

Here's the second-to-last episode of Star Trek Continues, the fan film effort that's done a pretty amazing job of capturing the tone and spirit of the original show. This time around Canadian Nebula-winning novelist Robert J. Sawyer wrote the teleplay, which depicts the end of the Enterprise's five-year mission by taking it back to the beginning...

Part one is extremely well done. I look forward to the finale, which hits the Internet in November. 

Freedom Fragments: Untitled Star Trek Story

Ron's generous gift of his Freedom BBS archives has presented me with a few surprises, including a number of poems, stories and fragments I have absolutely no recollection of writing. Most of it is pretty awful, including the following bit of Star Trek fan fiction, but there are a few turns of phrase I might steal from my past self for future projects.

The following story fragment was written in early 1992, and I present it here with post headers (my Freedom BBS handle was The Turtle in those days, after The Great and Powerful Turtle created by George R.R. Martin) and spelling mistakes intact. Aside from the purple prose I'm also a little embarrassed by the objectification of the story's lead woman character - it's pretty clumsy.

Here it is:


   92Jan29 8:14 pm from The Turtle


    His hands were shaking as they hovered above the shuttlecraft's antiquated
controls.  Only one more lightyear.  Already the viewscreen was relaying the
long-range sensor scan of his destination:  a wavering, shimmering pond of
space.  The distortion effect was hard to look at for very long, but the man
felt tears welling despite the inherent unpleasantless of the gateway.  That
was what he had come to call it; what he had called it for thirty years now,
ever since he had come through.  

    In two minutes, he would be through.  His hands fumbled for the medikit
that rested on the tattered copilot's seat.  Sweat was pouring into his eyes
as he searched for the hypospray; irritated and near panic with expectation,
he wiped the salty moisture away in a frantic, spastic motion.  His right hand
closed on the hypo, clutching it in a white-knuckled grip.  Even from this
range, he felt the effects of the Gateway begin to prey on his mind.  The
contents of the spray would protect him, however.  He pressed the injector to
his left forearm.  
    Before he could activate the device, a red warning blinker flashed
insistently.  His eyes bulged.  He dropped the hypo and slammed his hands down
onto the helm controls, initiating evasive maneuvers.  
    There was, simply, no time.  The man screamed as the shuttle lurched
violently, throwing him to the deck.  He heard the hypo slide across the
floor, heard circuts burning, felt raging heat on his back.  The lights went
out; only the viewer remained intact, the distortion growing larger, more
pronounced.  His eyes flicked up to that beckoning cloud.  Fingers seemed to
reach out to him, beckoning him to come to the other side.  

    He knew that the madness was gripping him.  He knew that it was too late to
avoid it, even if he found the hypo right away.  His heart broke as he saw the
distance readout:  1.1 AU away.  So close.  The shuttle shook again and began
to  tumble end over end, artificial gravity lost, viewscreen dimming, the only
light from flickering flames.  

    With the last glimmer of sanity, the man cursed Fate, feeling stupid and
superstitious for doing so.  

    And then he felt himself begin to fade.  He suddenly saw stars through the
shuttle walls; it was like looking through a gossamer curtain.  He saw the
cruiser that had found him, so close to his goal...

    And then the cruiser faded in turn, just as the shuttle walls turned
opaque once more.  The man felt his own body solidifying, and he knew that he
was through.  

    He began to scream.  

    And scream.

    And scream.

   92Feb04 8:43 pm from The Turtle


   "Captain's Personal Log, Stardate 10187.3.  The ship is maintaining
standard orbit around Beta Cassius II--called H'Levn by the natives--while Dr.
Sternbach and her staff attempt to discover the cause of the plauge that has
reached epidemic proportions among the H'Lev.  I find myself hoping that the
doctor is correct in proposing that the plague is not a natural occurance, but
a virus introduced deliberately by a spacefaring power.  If she is
correct--and only if--then we can act to help the H'Lev.  

   I find it ironic that in this situation I am actually depending upon the
capriciousness of the Federation's neighbours."  

                                ***

    "Henry, I said get in here, *Now!"  Cynthia Sternbach's voice was hoarse
from shouting through the howling winds and blowing sand, and she held a hand
up to muffle a cough.  Even within the shelter of the caves, the sands were
blown into clothing, hair, and eyes.  Sternbach admired the hardiness of the
indigenies.   And, she added to herself, their ability to make strangers feel
welcome.  Sternbach and her med team had come in disguise, of course--it was
standard prochedure when investigating cultures below tech level seven--and
she thought that the  supplies people had been a bit off in their costumes.
Even though the not-quite-right clothing garnered a few strange looks from the
humanoid H'Lev, no questions had been asked and shelter from the sandstorm had
been quickly offered.  

    "Coming, Doctor!"  Henry Childan called back, still huddling over the
tricorder he kept carefully hidden against his body.  The storm was playing
havoc witht the readings, and he gave in, securing the 'corder beneath his
tunic and turning to scamper into the cave.  Childan hurried over to Doctor
Sternbach's side.   The CMO led Childan over to a relatively uncrowded corner
of the cavern and pulled back the hood of her dark tan robes, revealing a lush
crown of luxuriant brown curls that Childan had wanted to bury his hands in
more than once.  

    "What did you find out?"  Sternbach asked quietly, mindful of the dozens
of  H'Lev surrounding them.  Most of the refugees were near death, lying in
disorganized heaps, tended to by relatives in only marginally better health.
Sternbach gave the species only a year to a year and a half to extinction if a
cure wasn't found for the disease that had already ravaged half of their one
billion lives.  
    "You were right, sir--there are soil traces of the virus.  It's all over
the place--scattered on rocks, trees, buildings, and it's still alive.  Either
this virus is incredibly resilient, or it's been genetically engineered to
wipe out  the H'Lev.  We'll have to get back to the ship to do a full
analysis, though."  

    "Dammit.  By the time we do a full scan, who knows how many more will
die...all right, Henry, well done."  Sternbach hooked a finger, beckoning the
other two members of the away team to her side.  "We're going back up."  The
others murmered assent and they moved for the cave exit.  A concerned H'Lev
rushed forward.  
    "Friends, wait--the storm is not over.  To venture forth now is certain
death!"  
    Cynthia patted the man's shoulder reassuringly.  "The Great God Lev
watches over us--we seek a cure for the blight that has passed over our
people."  Cynthia thought that it sounded a bit, well, melodramatic, but the
speech had the desired effect.  The H'Lev made a short wave with his left
hand--a salute.  "Lev watch over you," he said sincerely.  The party left the
cavern.  

    "I'm never going to get this stuff out of my clothes," Childan whined as
the raging sands blasted against them.  And then the storm sparkled and winked
out, to be replaced by the soft lights of the transporter room.  Childan
breathed a  sigh of relief and stamped his feet on the transporter pad to
shake out some of the sand.  

    "Thanks, Channey,"  Cynthia said to the sad-eyed, vaguely East
Indian-featured man standing behind the transporter console as she descended
from the raised  pad.  The medical party left the room, stamping and shaking
as they went, leaving a trail of red-gold silica behind them.  Channey sighed
and prepared dutifullt to clean up the mess.  
    "No problem," he replied, resigned, to Cynthia's retreating back.  

                         

   92Feb04 8:57 pm from The Turtle

    "I'm not saying I don't *know,"  Cynthia asserted, "I'm saying I don't
have  100% *proof."  

    The Captain leaned against a diagnostic bed, one hand running through grey
hair that was still thick after eighty years of life.  The Captain spoke in
crisp, clear British tones, worry lines creasing his forehead.  "Proof is what
I *need, Doctor.  I want to help these people, desperately, but if we cannot
make it clear to Starfleet that this crisis isn't a natural occurance, then we
can't interfere.  You know the Prime Directive as well as I do."  

    Cynthia stepped forward.  "Sir, given enough time, I can prove that
someone  did this deliberately to the H'Lev--probably the Romulans, if I read
the structure of the virus correctly.  If it was interference, then the Prime
Directive allows us to correct it."  

    Captain Carter Perry thought for a long moment.  If he gave the H'Lev
help--if he allowed Sternbach to distribute the cure she'd engineered--then he
risked  breaking the Prime Directive, should the plague be natural after all.
And if he broke the Prime Directive...he would lose his command.  High
stakes.  But the odds were still in his favour.  Doctor Sternbach and her
staff believed that the virus was in fact a biological weapon delivered by
some advanced, starfaring power.  If that was so, then the Federation had
every right to act to correct such tampering with a culture's evolution.
Besides, Sternbach wasn't wrong very often.  Under Starfleet policy, Perry
knew that he was required to be absolutely certain he wasn't breaking the
Prime Directive before acting.  But if he waited for that certaintly,
thousands of sentients would die.  

    It wasn't really a choice at all.  "Distribute your cure, Doctor,"  Perry
ordered.  Sternbach beamed and started to assemble a field kit, but Perry
raised a warning hand.  "Remember, Doctor, *full cultural protectorate
prochedures.  I want as little damage to the fabric of this society as
possible.  No Messiah or Florence Nightengale impressions, please."  

    "They won't even know who cured them, sir,"  Sternbach assured him.  Perry
smiled and took his leave, heading for the bridge.

   92Feb10 8:24 pm from The Turtle


   Doctor Sternbach beamed down alone, holding the small, delicate vial of
salvation tightly in one hand.  This time no storms raged; only a gentle
breeze caressed the veldt she had arrived at, a breeze that teased her hair
and made soft shushing sounds through the broad, crimson leaves of enormous
trees.  The two suns were high and hot on her face; a stream bubbled and
trickled a few feet away.  Cynthia walked across the short distance,
replicated moccasins swishing against lush grass, and knelt beside the
stream.  Long, tubelike 'fish' slithered with the current just below the
surface, creatures the doctor knew the H'Lev used as food.  A major
settlement--the planet's largest city, in fact, with a population of an
astounding one hundred ten thousand--lay only a few kilometers downstream.
Deliberately and with little fanfare, Cynthia uncapped the vial and let a
clear liquid spill with a  quiet tinkle into the brook.  Odd that it should be
so simple, she thought, looking down at her features rippling in the stream.
In a few hours, the antiviral agent would be present in almost all H'Lev in
the city.  Her staff were duplicating the prochedure at every population
center on the planet.  Total time for protection against the disease, from
discovery until distribution:  ten hours.  A short time in her life, of the
lives of all aboard the ship--but a short time that would mean the survival of
a species, even if that species never knew how important those few hours
were.  

   A broad smile broke across the delicate, rounded curves of Cynthia's face,
a  smile that bridged the distance between 'cute' and 'beautiful' for the
doctor.   It was a smile that came when she had accomplished something
worthwhile, when  life and health had been preserved.  This place, these
people, would live and prosper, she decided as she pulled out her communicator
from beneath the heavy folds of her tunic.  The device chirped as she flipped
it open.  

   "Channey here,"  came the resigned mumble.  

   "One to beam up, Channey,"  Sternbach replied, the smile reaching her
voice, as well.  And then she was gone, replaced by a sparkle of silver-blue
light.  

    And after that disappeared, there was only the wind and the water again,
whispering softly.  

   92Feb10 8:45 pm from The Turtle


    Captain Perry had taken the doctor's news fairly noncommitally, giving her
only a curt nod and a "well done."  He'd since retired to his quarters.
Looking into the mirror now, Perry saw a face that had been through much.
Even though he was only eighty--just a few years into middle age--his hair had
already gone grey, and a chorus of wrinkles was seeping, slowly but surely,
across his forehead and cheeks, lines formed more from worry than joy.  Oh, he
was still handsome in a dignified, stodgy sort of way--like one of the British
lords of old.  But he'd grown thinner, too, over the years, thin enough to
elicit concern from the CMO.  Concern, of course, that Perry had brushed
aside, hating the attention.  Sternbach admired Perry and Perry--Perry felt
more strongly than he should for the woman.  It was only natural.  She was
young, attractive, vivacious...and she quite possibly had the finest breasts
that he'd ever--

    Perry turned from the mirror angrily, cutting off that train of thought.
Is this what I am now? he wondered.  A dirty old man, more concerned with my
own infirmity--imagined infirmity, at that--than my command?  More concerned
with thoughts of romance--hell, sex, be honest with yourself--than the welfare
of an entire civilization?  He'd barely been able to concentrate on  crucial
decisions lately because of his twin obsessions...

   Carter Perry was being unfair to himself, and some corner of his mind knew
it; it was just that his preoccupations were taking up more of his time than
he was used to.  He was giving 99 percent rather than 100.  This was, in his
mind, unacceptable.  

   He sighed and sat down heavily on the bed, plunking down next to his desk
terminal and hitting a small blue square on the touchpad set into the oak.  A
"Captain's Log:  Recording"  telltale popped up on the screen recessed into
the cabin wall.  

   "Captain's Log, Supplemental.  I have ordered Dr. Sternbach and her staff
to  implement disease control prochedures on H'Levn.  Her work has been
carried out and she reports that the population of the planet is now safe from
further devestation by the virus.  Work is now proceeding to prove
conclusively that the virus was in fact a biological weapon introduced by a
hostile spacefaring race  that wished to eliminate the H'Lev in order to
garner the considerable resources of the planet.  I have made a full report of
the mission for Starfleet and am awaiting further orders from command.
    Note also that this mission concludes our current tour of duty and that
the  ship will be reporting back to the Antares shipyards immediately for our
biannual resupply and refitting.  We shall be underway in a matter of hours.
Carter Perry, USS Enterprise."  

   92Feb10 8:58 pm from The Turtle

     The USS Enterprise--NCC-1701-B, as the letters emblazoned across the bow
proudly declared--broke orbit, arcing outwards and upwards from H'Levn, golden
starlight caressing the starboard half of the ship.  Like a swan breaking away
from the surface of a wave-swept lake, her feet and wings kicking up droplets
of pure, clear water, Enterprise peeled aside Einsteinian space, stretching
with visual Doppler effect, hesitating for the barest fraction of an instant
as if taking  in a deep breath, and then snapped back into her proper form as
she was shot  forward into hyperspace, leaving a dazzling rainbow of colour
behind.  There was scattered applause from the stars, then silence as H'Levn
continued her serene revolution.  

                          END PROLOGUE  

Bad Fan Fiction Friday! The Spell of the Moment, Part One: The Federation Chalk Circle

Many fans of science fiction succumb to the temptation to write fan fiction.  As a wannabe but unsuccessful writer of fiction, I too have plumbed the depths of the phenomenon, even taking the embarrassing step of writing myself (or at least an idealized version of myself) into the story as the main character, as you'll see below. I know this is the worst sort of solipsistic wish fulfillment, but what fan of any genre fiction hasn't imagined himself or herself as the protagonist of such escapist adventures?

90 percent of fan fiction is crap, but as Sturgeon said, 90 percent of everything is crap, including the story you'll read below. But a handful of more gifted writers have produced fan fiction that garnered them enough respect to make the leap to professional status. So I think it's safe to say that if nothing else, fan fiction gives writers practice in crafting plot, dialogue and style while they develop their own original fictional worlds.

I wrote "The Federation Chalk Circle" sometime back in the early to mid 90s, just after graduating from university, back in the days when I was just beginning to make a living as a professional writer (of nonfiction, sadly). It takes place just before the events depicted in the eighth Star Trek film, First Contact.

Here's a fun game that I hope will take some of the sting out of the purple prose: see if you can spot the pop culture and literary references embedded in the text. And if you're a friend of mine from the 80s or 90s, see if you can spot yourself as one of the thinly-disguised supporting characters!

Star Trek: Ambassador

Spell of the Moment, Part One: The Federation Chalk Circle

Stardate 50890.1
Old Earth Calendar: November 2373
At the edge of the Otranto sector

Silence, but for the sound of his own steady breathing. Darkness, but for the unwinking stars that surrounded him. Admiral E.J. Woods hung in infinite emptiness, protected from vacuum only by the thin skin of his spacesuit, alone…

…or so it seemed. With a slight movement of his wrist, Woods activated the suit’s reaction-control thrusters and spun about his vertical axis. He was faced with the stark, graceful beauty of his ship, the Ambassador. She was at relative rest; only the regular flicker of her running lights and the dull blue glow of her engines gave any indication of activity. The admiral let his eyes play over the ship’s smooth lines, the clean, graceful form that could only be truly appreciated from this perspective. He hung there like a nervous supplicant, wondering - not for the first time - of the two of them, who was master and who was servant?

He thought about that for a moment, then realized that the question was a fallacy. Ideally, he thought, it’s a partnership. Starships might not be allowed sentience, but that doesn’t mean we have to treat them like slaves. And if we don’t treat them that way…then we can’t, ourselves, be treated in like manner. He smiled, a little smugly, pleased by his observation. All right, you’re anthropomorphizing, just like you used to do back in school. But could there be a connection between-

He was interrupted by a gentle whistle that reverberated inside his helmet.

“Ambassador to Admiral Woods,” Mr. Bridge, his comm officer, said.
   
“Woods here. I didn’t forget to top up my air supply, did I? Urk…gak…” He made a few choking noises and flailed his arms and legs about, no doubt provoking a few rolled eyes on the bridge.

“Um, Admiral, we’re getting a Priority One signal from Starfleet Command. Commander Il-Kaur requests you return to the ship immediately.”

Woods’ expression turned serious. “All right, I’m on my way.”

The admiral activated the suit’s main thruster and sped towards the ship, heading for the dorsal airlock. A few minutes later, he was in the locker room, removing his helmet. Just as he about to take off his chest plate, Commander Il-Kaur, his first officer, entered. A worried expression marred her beautiful features only slightly.

“So what is it?” he asked.

She looked him straight in the eyes.

“The Borg.”

Il-Kaur’s mouth was pressed into a thin line, and she fidgeted as Woods finished extricating himself from his spacesuit. Woods noted absently that she was wearing one of the new grey and black uniforms, the latest Starfleet fashion.

“What’s happening, Number One?” he asked as they walked briskly to the nearest turbolift. 

“Long range sensors on Deep Space Five have picked up indications of a transwarp conduit opening about 15 light years from Ivor Prime.”

Transwarp conduits were the Borg’s preferred method of travel over interstellar distances. As they entered the lift, Woods felt his palms start to sweat.

“Bridge,” Il-Kaur told the elevator.

“Don’t we have a colony on Ivor Prime?” Woods asked.

“Half a million people, mostly humans and Andorians, with minimal defences.”

“Let me guess. We’re the only ship between the Borg and Ivor Prime.”

Il-Kaur nodded with a wry, humourless grin as the lift doors opened, revealing the bridge. Ensign Echo was sitting in the center seat; she stood up immediately, making way for the Admiral. “Captain Noor on Deep Space Five said the station would be at our disposal,” Il-Kaur continued.

“That’s a little help, anyway,” Woods said as Echo returned to her traditional place at the Ops station. “What else?”

“Admiral Hayes has ordered us to intercept any Borg vessels we encounter. The Greystoke, the Bozeman, and the Sojourner Truth are on the way, but they won’t catch up to us until about an hour after we engage the Borg.”

“Great.” Woods took a deep breath. He’d been through a lot in just eight years of service to Starfleet…but the thought of facing the Borg terrified him. And he was taking over 800 people into the fray, in an 80-year-old starship, against the deadliest foe the Federation had ever faced. 800 lives. More than that - as the highest ranking officer in the sector, he was ultimately responsible for the lives on Ivor Prime, Deep Space Five, and the three starships racing to help.

That may have been why Il-Kaur had to prompt him.

“Sir…your orders?”

Even then, it took a moment for Woods to address Ensign Thuvia, the conn officer.

“Lay in a course to the coordinates of the transwarp conduit and engage, Ensign,” he said.

Thuvia, unperturbed, pressed a few buttons and the ship went superluminal, a ghostly streak against the stars, racing Armageddon.

` ` `

Cair Paravel, Ivor Prime

Cair Paravel was the only city on Ivor Prime. A modest metropolis of nanotech-constructed towers, Cair Paravel rested on the shores of the planet’s largest ocean, the Homeric. To the west was Ivor Prime’s great rain forest. The people of Ivor Prime enjoyed the same rich standard of living as other Federation citizens; their days were spent mostly in education or creative expression or sports contests. Only a minimal amount of labour was required to keep the colony thriving; robot satellites took care of Ivor Prime’s main industry, harvesting spare energy from the planet’s sun. So far, the young colony’s main contribution to the Federation had been their excellent Go tournament, which drew visitors from all over, especially Vulcan tourists.

The Federation’s current Go champion was also the mayor of Cair Paravel and de facto governor of Ivor Prime. Her name was Dinarzad Jones. She was the youngest daughter of a Persian poet and an American archeologist, both of some repute. Her older sister had gained fame as a storyteller, and it was partly that which had driven Dinarzad to Ivor Prime some fifteen years ago. Here, she could build something completely removed from her family’s well-meaning but sometimes stifling influence.

At the moment, Dinarzad was sitting on a park bench on Echo Beach, enjoying the breeze and the afternoon sun. Her head was tilted back, her eyes closed, the universe something abstract, far away.

Someone was tugging on her dress. She sighed and looked down, discovering little black-haired Enod and his group of friends. Dinarzad leaned forward and rested her chin on her hands, regarding Enod with a bemused expression.

“Tell us a story!” Enod demanded. The other children were already sitting down in the sand.

“A story,” Dinarzad echoed, her calm tone hiding the terror she felt whenever the children asked her to do this. Her sister was the great storyteller, not her.

But then Dinarzad remembered where she was, and remembered that these innocents had never heard of her sister. She smiled.

“Very well, then. Now…listen. Once upon a time, a young woman in China bore a son, who she loved with all her heart...”

“What’s China?” one of the children asked.

“It’s on Earth,” another answered before Dinarzad could reply.

“That’s right,” she said, “And she had a friend, a very lonely and jealous friend, who couldn’t have children. And the friend grew more and more envious, until finally she decided to claim the child as her own.”

“Of course, the real mother was very sad. Her friend was trying to steal her child. There was nothing to do but to take the case before an old, wise judge. It should have been an easy case to judge, but along the way the facts had become confused, and so in the end it was the word of the real mother against that of the false.”

“What did the judge do?” Enod asked.

“The judge came down from his high wooden chair, and in his hand was a piece of white chalk. He stooped over and used the chalk to draw a large circle on the courtroom floor. And then he told the boy to stand in the centre of the circle. And the boy obeyed.”

“Then the judge said to the two women, ‘Now the two of you shall each take one arm of the boy. You shall each try to pull the boy from the circle. Whichever succeeds in pulling the boy to her side will naturally be revealed as the true mother, since the strength of her love overcame the pretender’s.”

“And so the judge held his hand high, and each of the women gripped the boy tightly by one arm. The judge dropped his hand, signaling the women to begin. For a moment, the two women struggled, and the boy cried out as his poor arms were pulled upon. But only a moment did the contest last, for the true mother suddenly released her son, who flew into the arms of the pretender.”

There was a shocked gasp from the children.

“The pretender cried out triumphantly. “See!” she said, “I told you I was the true mother all along!”

“But the judge then commanded her to release the boy. Her eyes grew round and her lips were twisted with rage. ‘But I won the contest!’ she protested, ‘My love was stronger than hers!’”

“The judge shook his head. ‘Only a fool could believe that you were the true mother of this helpless boy,’ he pronounced. ‘For in the instant that her child was threatened, this woman’ – and here the judge pointed at the boy’s true mother – ‘this woman let her son fall into the arms of a pretender rather than participate in his destruction. That is the true test of the chalk circle.’”

“And so the boy ran back into the arms of his joyfully sobbing mother, and they lived happily ever after.”

“That story sucks,” a little boy snorted.

Dinarzad suppressed a burst of anger. “Well, next time I’ll tell a story about a dragon,” she promised, her voice sharper than she’d intended.

The children ran off into the surf, though Enod lagged behind. After a moment, he returned. “Ms. Mayor, what was that story about?”

“Well, Enod, better thinkers than I have answered that question a lot of different ways. I guess it’s about the price of violence, and how sometimes fighting for something can do more damage than simply letting it go.”

“But, wouldn’t the little boy have been unhappy, being away from his mom?”

“Perhaps, but I think the point is that he would have still been alive to be unhappy.”

“Oh.”

Enod ran off to join his friends then. After a moment, Dinarzad stood, kicked off her sandals, and made her way towards the water, intending to stroll along the beach before returning home.

That was when a great shadow passed over the face of the sun, dropping the city into sudden darkness. Dinarzad paused, looking up…

A shaft of swirling, pulsating light pierced the darkness, stabbing into the heart of the city. Dinarzad watched in horror as the city began to shake, its towers buckling, its citizens screaming as the entire community began to rise, ripped from the planet, torn from its foundations. Dinarzad stumbled back in shock, tripping and landing on her rear end in the shallows, instantly soaked to the skin. The children were screaming, she was screaming, and she felt the tide take her out to sea, away from the great catastrophe unfolding before her…

The last thing she saw before she was pulled beneath the waves was the surreal vision of her city, her friends, rising into the sky on a pillar of ugly green light.

` ` `

Ambassador dropped out of warp space just in time to see the ugly grey bulk of a Borg cube focus its tractor beam on Ivor Prime. The ship raced forward on impulse power, aimed straight at the cube and the blue-green planet it was assaulting.

“My God, we’re too late,” Bridge groaned, his eyes locked on the horrific vision on the viewscreen.

“Sound general quarters,” Woods said.

“Answering general quarters,” Ensign Thuvia said at Conn, “Going to Red Alert…”

Red light filled the bridge. Woods gripped the arms of his chair tightly, his hands sweating more than ever. Please don’t let me get them all killed, he thought.

“Raise shields, arm phasers and photon torpedoes,” Il-Kaur ordered.

“Flank speed. On my command, fire all weapons,” Woods heard himself say in a voice that was shaking just a little. The Ambassador was among the oldest ships in the fleet. Even with her recent refit, she was no match for a Borg vessel.

The ship was coming straight “down” on the cube. Woods could see the shattered remains of a city held prisoner in the shimmering tractor beam. The cube grew larger as they bore down on it.

“Transmission coming in from the cube,” Bridge said. A booming, hideous voice filled the room:

“We are the Borg. Do not attempt to interfere. Your culture will adapt to service us. Lower your shields and prepare for assimilation. We seek only to improve quality of life.”

Drea McLood, standing at the tactical station at the rear of the bridge, murmured to herself with her signature German accent. “There’s nothing like an earnest Borg, nein?”

Echo and Thuvia, their stations positioned side by side at the fore of the bridge, took a moment to look at each other. Woods watched as they extended and linked their hands, holding tightly to one another.

They expect to die, he realized. And so do I. He licked his lips and formed the words that would seal their fate:

“Fire!”
            
*   *   *

That's as far as I got, though I do have a vague outline of a plot stored away in my brain. The mayor's tale of the chalk circle was meant to serve as foreshadowing to the struggle Admiral Woods and the Ambassador would soon face as they attempt to save Ivor Prime - and by extension the Federation - from the Borg. Can you save something by surrendering? That's what the characters would have found out....