Star Trek: Small World
By David Mack
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About this ebook
The da Vinci 's latest mission involves bringing precious cargo to the Mu Arae system -- an entire world that, through a miraculous feat of engineering, is being stored in a small, pyramid-shaped box. Unfortunately, a hostile species wants the pyramid -- and its amazing technology -- for itself, and won't hesitate to go through the da Vinci to get it.
To make matters worse, the caretaker of the world is in critical condition in sickbay. The S.C.E. must figure out the secret of the planet-in-a-box before it's destroyedŠ
SMALL WORLD
David Mack
David Mack is the multi-award-winning and the New York Times bestselling author of thirty-eight novels of science fiction, fantasy, and adventure, including the Star Trek Destiny and Cold Equations trilogies. His extensive writing credits include episodes of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, and he worked as a consultant on season one of the animated series Star Trek: Prodigy. Honored in 2022 as a Grand Master by the International Association of Media Tie-in Writers, Mack resides in New York City.
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Star Trek - David Mack
CHAPTER 1
Flames licked at Araneus’s abdomen as another disruptor blast pummeled his tiny ship. One of his long, sinewy pedipalps shot down from his cephalothorax and silenced the shrilling alert signal on his wraparound helm console. Another tentacle-like appendage keyed the transmitter switch again. Repeat,
he said, trying to speak slowly and clearly. "This is the transport Lycosa, requesting assistance. Do you read me?" A squall of static rasped from the speaker.
The metallic, pyramid-shaped container tucked between his back legs seemed more fragile than it really was. It is probably faring better than I am, Araneus mused glumly.
The wheel-shaped space station was barely visible beyond his cockpit windshield. It was silhouetted against the sunset-red surface of the gas giant behind it. Though it was a mere few hundred toscams away, he despaired of reaching it.
Another cacophonous boom rattled his ship’s critically weakened hull. Araneus scuttled sideways against the bulkhead, away from the tongues of fire snaking through fractures in the gray deck beneath his legs. The acrid odor of burned hair and scorched flesh crept into his spiracles. Another alarm confirmed that the Silgov had locked their weapons onto his engines.
It was all over. The greatest journey in Koas history was about to end in tragedy.
With a sound like crumbling lerfo bark, a reply to his S.O.S. spat in disjointed bursts from the console speaker and echoed around him in the cramped, circular cockpit. "Lycosa … is Varkala Station … course one-four-four mark six …" A brief silence was followed by " …unidenti … stand down or we—"
The Silgov ship broke its weapons lock on the Lycosa and unleashed a volley of plasma fire at the space station. The barrage impacted on the facility’s energy shield, which flickered like an ephemeral golden cocoon.
Then came the station’s response—a quartet of fiery red projectiles that screamed past Araneus’s ship toward the Silgov scout, which peeled away into an evasive maneuver. Unlike Koas weapons, which were extremely limited, the crimson missiles pursued the sleek, dartlike Silgov vessel relentlessly and eventually overtook it. Four brutal explosions hammered its shields, which collapsed. Without further delay, the ship broke off its attack and engaged its stardrive in retreat.
Araneus was about to thank his rescuers when his main console went dark. From the bowels of his ship came an ominous rumble, followed by the low, hungry roar of fire racing forward from the engines, looking for fuel to feed its wrath.
The station was still too far away. He would never reach it in time. With four legs he clutched the pyramid against his abdomen and prayed to the Architect of Time for forgiveness.
* * *
Varkala Station commander Cody Mui watched with mounting anxiety as the unidentified vessel fractured on the main viewer. Most of the staff in the station’s drab, utilitarian command center worked in tense silence. Eric Theriault, his operations foreman, slammed his fist against his console. They’re breaking up. I can’t tractor ’em in without ripping ’em apart.
Mui turned toward his station manager, Kari Spada. The blond young woman answered before he gave the order. Boosting transporters to quantum resolution.
Wiping the sweat from his palms, Mui asked, How long?
Ten more seconds,
she said.
Eric, can you get a lock on the crew?
The beefy foreman punched in a new set of commands. One life sign,
he said. Locked.
On the viewer, a bright orange flare pulsed in the rear third of the tiny ship, which resembled a spiny sea urchin. Mui had never seen a vessel like it before. He had no idea whether its origin lay within Thallonian space or if it had simply passed through it. The only thing he knew about it for certain was that, in a few more seconds, it would explode.
Transporters ready,
Spada said.
Mui nodded. Energize.
He opened a channel to the infirmary. Doc, it’s Cody. You got a patient comin’ in.
He better have an appointment,
Dr. Safford grumbled over the comm, sounding like someone who’d been woken from a very nice dream and wasn’t at all happy about it.
Spada initiated the transport sequence. She was still completing it as the vessel erupted and vanished in a rapidly dispersed cloud of atomized particles. Looking up from her console, she reassured Mui, It’s okay. Transport complete.
The commander heaved a relieved sigh, then said, Nice work. I’ll head down to meet our guest.
Walking toward the turbolift, he felt an extra spring in his step; apparently, the diet his wife had inflicted on him by reprogramming his replicator was working after all. He made a mental note to thank her later.
Spada called after him. Should we call this in?
Stepping into the turbolift, he said, "Let’s wait until we know what to call it in as."
* * *
Inside the battered Silgov scout ship Starlit Wing, the temperature was falling rapidly. Maleiras, the chief scout, supervised the repair of the damage inflicted by the alien space station. Never mind the weapons,
she said softly. Focus on restoring communications. We have to alert the fleet.
Sesslom, the ship’s soldier-mechanic, shimmied out from under the main control panel. The honey-hued skin of his delicately symmetrical face was marred by irregular smears of smoky black filth, and his silvery hair—normally coiffed into a bold vertical crest down the middle of his head—was as tangled as a thokka nest. "Communications will take at least two shavs to restore, my lady," he said.
I understand,
she said. Work as quickly as you can.
As you command,
Sesslom said.
Maleiras turned toward aft and kneeled down to look