Текст книги "Twilight "

Автор книги: David George

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

26

Quark listened to the sounds of the bar—a fair number of voices, but neither enough rings of glassware nor enough groans of loss at the dabo wheel—and he realized that he actually missed Dr. Bashir and Chief O’Brien. Of course, the 57th Rule of Acquisition—“Good customers are as rare as latinum; treasure them”—never proved more true than when good customers abandoned you. Even though they were Starfleet types, Bashir and O’Brien had at least known how to drink and spend money. They might not have gambled enough to satisfy Quark’s appetites, but darts had been a thirsty game for them.

Quark glanced from behind the bar over to the corner where the dartboard still hung. Dr. Bashir still played occasionally, but things had certainly not been the same since the chief had gone back to Earth. “Earth,” Quark muttered. “Hew-mons.”He shook his head in disgust.

Grabbing a rag, he began to wipe down the bar, lamenting his middling fortunes as he did so. Since the Europani and the convoy crews had departed the station, business had sunk to a steady but unspectacular level. As he had expected, the presence of the Gryphoncrew on the station had done little to improve profits, and the absence of Defianthad actually hurt them. Quark still hoped that commercial traffic through the wormhole would eventually resume, but he did not, as a rule, put much stock in hope. The 109th Rule of Acquisition said about dignity what might just as well have been said about hope: that “and an empty sack is worth the sack.” At this rate, Quark would wither and die in the bar decades from now, having earned just enough profit to pay for his Certificate of Dismemberment and maybe, just maybe, a little memorial plaque for the corner. “It can replace the frinxing dartboard,” he mumbled to himself.

“Dabo,” came the cry of several voices from across the room, and Quark peered over to see only a handful of gamblers around the wheel. Treir, long, slender, and deliciously green, stood over the dabo table, her scant outfit clinging alluringly to her body, its iridescent fabric titillating the eye by allowing just enough jade skin to show through without causing a riot. But only just. She had been one of the few bright spots in the bar recently—though he paid her dearly for that brightness—usually generating a good turnout around the dabo wheel.

As Quark continued to swab the bar, he saw Grimp approach carrying a tray with several glasses of varying shape, size, and color. One of them, an orange-tinted flute, stood almost completely full. Grimp came around the bar and started to unload the empties onto the recycle shelf. Quark wiped his hands with the rag and tossed it beneath the bar, then walked over to Grimp and pointed at the full glass. “What’s this?” he wanted to know.

“Argelian sparkling wine,” Grimp said. “Lieutenant McEntee wanted to try it.”

“She wanted to try it?”Quark asked, already jumping ahead and knowing what he would hear.

“Ah, she, ah, she didn’t like it,” Grimp stammered. He had loaded all of the empty glasses onto the shelf, and now he lifted the flute and reached to put it there as well. Quark seized his wrist and stopped him, the sparkling wine splashing over the rim of the glass and onto both their hands.

“She did pay for it, though,” Quark demanded. “Right?”

“Well, ah, since she didn’t drink it—”

“Grimp, you fool,” Quark said, raising his voice. “I’m running a bar here, not a charitable taste-testing facility.” The waiter flinched at the loud words, his eyes squinting and his shoulders hunching. Grimp’s cowering reminded Quark of his own brother, back in the good old days when Rom had worked in the bar, before he had become station engineer, before he had become—

But that was a subject Quark did not need to think about right now; his mood was sour enough without having to think about how Rom was currently working to destroy Ferengi culture. He released Grimp’s wrist, and said, “Go back and charge her for the drink.” The waiter hesitated, obviously not wanting to confront the Gryphonofficer. “Charge her,” Quark insisted, “or it’s coming out of your salary.” Maybe he would dock Grimp’s pay anyway, he thought, for either impertinence or incompetence—or maybe for both. Grimp put the flute down on the recycle shelf, the glass clinking against another, then slunk with his tray back out onto the floor.

A movement drew Quark’s attention, and he looked down to the end of the bar near the entrance. Seated there, Morn held up a tall, blue, and empty glass, wiggling it in Quark’s direction. Thank the Blessed Exchequer that there are some constants in the universe,he thought. He quickly retrieved the rag and wiped the sparkling wine from his hand, then ducked beneath the bar and pulled out a short, bulbous bottle. An emblem of the First Federation adorned the import hologram around its squat neck. Quark removed the stopper from the clear bottle as he strode over to Morn, who had deposited his glass in front of him. Quark poured out a healthy serving of the bright orange tranya.“Well, my friend,” Quark said as he sealed the bottle back up, “I hope you’re having a better evening than I am.”

Morn offered a sideways glance—very nearly a leer—at a lithe Mathenite woman sitting beside him. He winked at Quark, then raised his replenished glass, obviously about to make a toast. Before he could, though, a loud crash and the clatter of breaking glass filled the bar.

The bottle of tranyastill in hand, Quark raced out to find Frool sprawled on the floor. The waiter still held a tray in his outstretched hands, pieces of broken glass scattered out in front of him in many colors. Quark lowered himself to his knees beside Frool to be sure he was all right. The waiter had somehow hurt his leg last week, and he had been limping around ever since. Quark had warned him to be careful, but he clearly had not listened.

Frool rose to his feet—Quark rose with him, a hand steadying the waiter’s back—and brushed himself off. “I’m all right,” he said. He pointed to the shattered glass on the floor. “Sorry about that.”

“Frool, you gimp,” Quark said, and his words filled the bar, which had quieted at the sound of the crash. Quark turned and raised his arms out in front of him, gesturing with his fingers to his customers. “Everything’s all right, folks. Nothing to see here. Just go back to your drinking and gambling.” He looked over at Treir and saw again the empty seats around her. “Plenty of room at the dabo wheel,” he added. Slowly, the noise level began to increase as people returned to what they had been doing—mostly talking, Quark assumed, since none of them were drinking, gambling, or spending enough.

“I’ll clean that up,” Frool said, indicating the bits of glass on the floor.

“You do that,” Quark said. “And it’s coming out of your wages.” Frool nodded resignedly and moved off. Quark looked to the customer nearest him—Ensign Ling from ops, seated at the bar—shrugged, and said, “You just can’t get good help these days.” He started to head back behind the bar, but then another eruption of sound accosted him.

“Dabo,” came the yell of mingled voices. Quark reached past Ensign Ling and put the bottle of tranyadown on the bar, then hurried toward the dabo table. As he walked, the heavy clink of latinum drifted to him. Normally a beautiful sound, in this context—Treir counting out somebody’s winnings—it made him sick.

At the table, Quark took hold of Treir’s elbow and leaned in beside her. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Treir shifted and bent, reducing her height of nearly two meters, and then draped a long, perfectly toned arm across his shoulders, the side of her body rubbing up temptingly alongside his. “We’re paying off another lucky winner here at Quark’s,” she said with an appealing lilt in her tone. “Just like we always do.” Quark knew she had said this as an enticement to the people at the table, and to anybody else within earshot, but there were not nearly enough customers around the dabo wheel to suit Quark. More than that, her words carried a little too much truth for him right now; he shuddered to count how many times she had paid out on a spin of dabo this evening.

“Well, stop doing it,” he groused. “And get some more people gambling,” he added, louder.

In an instant, Treir had extricated herself from around him. She faced Quark, peering down from her full height. “Get ’em yourself,” she said, the singsong quality of her voice now gone. “I can’t force people to come into this—” She hesitated, and Quark dreaded whatever descriptive noun she would choose to finish her sentence. “—place,” she finally said, apparently realizing—and wisely so—that it would not benefit her to insult the establishment that paid her salary.

Quark stared up at her. “It’s your jobto get customers to come in here and gamble,” he told her. At the table, two people stood up and moved away. Quark pointed after them. “Look,” he said. “See what you’re doing. Now you’re chasing customers out of here.”

“You’re about two milliseconds away from chasing me out of here, Quark,” she said. Then, lowering her voice to an ominous pitch, she said through gritted teeth, “You’d better watch it.”

Quark had just about had enough. He thought that perhaps he should chase Treir and her steep salary out of here. This did not mark the first time since he had hired her that she had argued with him. Worse than that, she often behaved as though she were his business associate, rather than merely his employee.

“Listen,” Quark told her, “if you want to leave—” He stopped. He had just heard something unexpected to his left, but when he looked in that direction, he saw nobody there. Odo,he thought immediately. The constable always used to attempt to insinuate himself into the bar to spy on him, but Quark had learned to distinguish the nearly subaudible sound of shifting fluid that Odo made, no matter his form. But Quark dismissed the notion as quickly as it had come to him. Not only was Odo off on some planet in the Gamma Quadrant oozing around with the Founders, but the only similarity between the sound Quark had just heard and the sound Odo made was that there appeared to be no source for it.

And then something occurred to Quark. He reached out to the dabo table and swiped an empty glass from atop it. He lowered it to his side, then whipped his arm upward, tossing the glass in the direction of the sound. The glass tumbled in a swift, flat arc, reflecting the orange and yellow light produced by the artwork on the wall.

And then the glass froze in midair.

The air beyond the unmoving glass shimmered, and a Jem’Hadar soldier flickered into existence. Quark heard several people gasp around the bar. He could not really tell from the face—they all looked alike to him—but from the black coverall the Jem’Hadar wore, he assumed this was the one Odo had sent here. The idea that the former constable might try to reach through the wormhole to disrupt Quark’s business seemed a natural one.

The Jem’Hadar did not move, but stood staring directly at Quark. Other sounds rose in the bar now: glasses being put down on tables, chairs being pushed back, footsteps. Quark looked quickly around and saw that many of his customers had gotten up, and still others had already started toward the exit.

“Quark to security,” he yelped, and the sounds of people rushing toward the door grew in number and volume. Still, the Jem’Hadar did not move, and Quark supposed that was a good thing. The last time a Jem’Hadar had appeared in the bar, he had later killed numerous people and attempted to destroy the station. This one often used the holosuites, causing Quark only the trouble of frequent repairs, but that was a much different thing than suddenly appearing in the middle of the bar out of nowhere. When he received no response to his call for help, he said again, “Quark to sec—”

“This is Ro,”came the lovely voice of the lovely lieutenant. “What can I do for you, Quark?”

“Lieutenant,” Quark said, purposely not using Laren’s given name, wanting to impress upon her the need for her professional assistance. “We’ve got a serious disturbance in the bar. We need help.”

“I’ll be right there,”Ro said, and Quark was pleased to hear a sense of urgency in her voice. He heard the comlink close.

Quark stood motionless, continuing to stare at the Jem’Hadar. He wanted to turn and run, or at least back slowly away, but he feared that might incite the soldier to violence. He remembered vividly how a Jem’Hadar had maimed his nephew, destroying one of Nog’s legs. So he remained still. Directly behind him, he heard Treir’s careful, measured breathing, and he could tell that she was scared too. That troubled Quark even more; Treir was a tough female.

“Well? What do you want?” Quark finally blurted, unable to control his fear. The Jem’Hadar said nothing and continued to stare at him. The eyes reminded Quark of somebody else, he realized: Garak, with that cold, intense glare that could seemingly penetrate neutronium. Quark had heard a rumor a while ago that Garak, when he had served with the Obsidian Order, had once stared at a man for ten hours straight, ultimately forcing the man into submission, and though Quark had never been able to substantiate the claim, he had never for a moment doubted its veracity.

The sound of footsteps rapidly approaching out on the Promenade reached Quark. When he heard them enter the bar, he took a chance and turned. Ro stood just inside the entrance now, phaser drawn and held out ahead of her. Sergeant Etana and Sergeant Shul flanked her, their weapons also in their hands. People streamed past them, headed out onto the Promenade.

Quark watched as Ro scanned the room, her eyes quickly finding him. “Quark,” she said, “what is it? What’s the trouble?” Before he could answer her, though, he saw that her gaze had moved past him and had evidently taken in the Jem’Hadar. “Taran’atar,” she said. “Is there a problem?”

“Not with me,” the Jem’Hadar said.

Ro approached the dabo table, her phaser now held at her side and pointing down toward the floor. As she reached Quark and Treir, she nodded to Treir and made a quick motion with her head, obviously indicating that she should leave. Treir apparently did not need any more invitation than that; she backed away toward the door.

Ro stepped directly up to Quark. “What did he do?” she asked him, clearly referring to the Jem’Hadar.

“Do?” Quark said. “He chased away what few customers I had.”

Ro nodded, then looked over Quark’s shoulder for a second. “How did he do that?” she asked. “The broken glass by the bar?”

“What?” Quark asked, and then remembered the tray his waiter had dropped. “No, no, that was Frool. But this Jem’Hadar was slinking around here, invisible.” His voice rose and his words began coming faster. “And then he appeared out of nowhere and terrified everybody—me included. You saw them pouring out of here.” He pointed past Ro toward the door.

A sympathetic expression played across Ro’s face, and Quark thought that she could see how angry and frightened he felt. Then she looked back over toward the Jem’Hadar. “He looks like he’s been drinking,” she said, any sense of exigency suddenly leaving her voice.

“What?” Quark said, perplexed. He moved to Ro’s side so that he could see both her and the Jem’Hadar, and then he saw the glass in the Jem’Hadar’s hand. “No, no,” Quark protested. “I threw that in his direction when I heard a strange noise. That’s how I got him to uncloak.”

“I see,” she said, nodding her head. To Quark’s dismay, she holstered her weapon.

“Wait, what are you doing?” he said, his words emerging in a rush.

“Taran’atar,” Ro said, stepping toward the Jem’Hadar, “what are you doing in here?”

“I am observing,” he said. “Nothing more.”

“I see,” she said. She turned back toward Quark, and she still looked as though she felt sorry for him. “So you’re not here to hurt anybody?” she asked, obviously of the Jem’Hadar.

“No.”

“All right,” she said. She motioned to her deputies, and said, “Etana, Shul, you can go.” Then she walked back over to Quark.

“You’re not letting him go?” Quark said.

“He hasn’t done anything criminal,” Ro explained.

“Can’t you at least get him out of my bar?” Quark wanted to know.

Ro sat down at the dabo table. “Quark,” she said, lowering her voice, apparently so that only he could hear her. “You can’t deny admittance to somebody just because of his species. You know that. I’m sure you’ve been the victim of that sort of attitude.”

“But…”

“I know how you feel,” she said. “Believe me, there’ve been plenty of people I’d have liked to have kept out of plenty of places.” A lightness dressed her words, and Quark thought that she was trying to ease his tension. He was grateful—more than grateful; happy—for her concern, but it did not change the situation in the bar.

“He’s wrecking my business,” he said. “When you arrived, you saw those people—those customers—leaving.”

“I’m sorry, Quark,” she said, and he believed her. “I really am. But simply being a Jem’Hadar isn’t a crime.”

“But disturbing the peace is,” he said. “And incitement to riot.”

“All I see right now is incitement not to play dabo,” she said. “And that’s not a crime,” she repeated.

“It ought to be,” Quark persisted. “I’m not joking.”

“I know you’re not,” Ro said. She leaned forward on her chair so that her face drew very close to his. He could smell a delicate scent on her, and it surprised him; he had never noticed her wearing perfume before. The bouquet was somewhat mild, but still very pleasant—and the idea of it, of her dabbing it onto her body, was much more than merely pleasant. “When I get off duty,” she said, “maybe I’ll come back here and play a little dabo myself.”

Quark felt a tingle in his lobes. “You will?” he asked, his voice now a whisper.

“It might be fun,” she said. “I’ve been thinking these past few days about taking a few risks.”

“Well, if you’re up for some risks,” Quark started, but then he heard a footstep. He jerked his head up to see Taran’atar moving toward the bar. Quark backed away from Ro a step. “You have to do something about him,” he said, pointing.

Ro sat back up and watched the Jem’Hadar as he crossed the room. Quark saw the few customers who remained allow him a wide berth as he passed. Fortunately, the Jem’Hadar did not stop at the bar, but continued walking and headed out the door. “He’s scaring my customers, Lieutenant,” Quark said, again employing Ro’s title in an attempt to impress upon her the seriousness of the situation.

She looked back at him. “All right,” she said. “I’ll speak with Colonel Kira about it.”

“Make sure you tell her what you saw,” Quark insisted. “This isn’t just about me; it’s about the people on the station being able to enjoy the vital services I provide.”

Ro smiled at him. “Of course,” she said. She stood up, then walked around the dabo table and out the door.

Quark sighed heavily. He tried to think of what he could say to the few customers still there to encourage them to spend their money, but nothing came to mind. What a night,he thought. He straightened his jacket with a tug at the waist, then went back to the bar. Frool had come back, he saw, and was preparing to clean up the broken glass. Grimp had also returned to the bar, and Quark considered asking him whether or not he had succeeded in getting Lieutenant McEntee to pay for the drink she had sent back, but he found that he did not have the energy. I’ll just dock his pay, anyway,he thought. Just in case.

Then he wondered if Laren would actually come back to the bar later. She had probably been joking, but he thought he would put on some cologne himself. Just in case.

27

The planetary system had been obliterated.

Vaughn leaned forward in the command chair and peered at the main viewscreen as Defiantapproached the devastation. A vast field of debris—most fragments no larger than a human fist—stretched across billions of billions of cubic kilometers. These were not planetesimals; this was not a solar system in the early stages of being born, but one that had lived and died. Every planet, every moon, every comet and asteroid, had been pulverized here—everything but the star, which they assumed had endured by virtue of its considerable mass, density, and energy. Vaughn had many times witnessed the cruelty of an indifferent universe, and he could only hope now that the system had not been inhabited—and that this would not be the fate that would ultimately befall the Vahni Vahltupali.

“I’m seeing the same strange energy readings we recorded in the Vahni system,” Lieutenant Bowers reported from tactical. As he and the rest of the bridge crew worked, the sounds of programmed tones, the audio cues of the various panels, played through the air like an electronic concert.

Vaughn lifted his chin from his hands. “This didn’t just happen though?” he asked. The debris seemed too widely dispersed for this to have occurred recently.

“No, sir,” Ensign ch’Thane confirmed at the sciences console. Nog and Prynn worked the other primary bridge stations. “The pulse did pass through the system, but the residual energy readings, and the granularity and distribution of the rubble, indicate that this happened over time, probably the result of multiple events.”

“All of which supports what the Vahni told us,” Vaughn said, nodding slowly. “That this has been afflicting their planet for centuries.” And if all of the Vahni information proved accurate—and Vaughn had no reason to believe otherwise—then they could expect another, more powerful pulse to sweep through their system in less than a year—possibly even in just a few months. Vaughn leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily. “Is there anything to suggest how much farther away the source of the pulse might be?”

“No, sir,” Bowers said. He paused, operating his controls, and then said, “Captain, I’m reading a concentration of energy about a hundred fifty million kilometers from the star…and there’s a mass there…”

“It’s a planet,” ch’Thane announced.

“Intact?” Vaughn asked, and thought, How can that be?He stood up and walked over to the sciences station.

“Yes, sir,” ch’Thane answered. He consulted his display, and then quoted readings for the planet’s mass, diameter, and distance from its star, all of which fell within the normal range for class-M worlds.

Vaughn leaned toward the console, bringing a hand up on the back of ch’Thane’s chair. “Are there life signs?” he asked, searching the panel himself for an answer. “Or any indications of a habitable ecosphere?”

The ensign worked his controls before responding. “I can’t tell,” he finally said. “The energy readings are interfering with sensors.”

Vaughn straightened and turned toward the main viewscreen, as though he would be able to see the unexpected planet across the cold kilometers. He looked at the rock fragments tumbling silently through space, barely visible in the darkness as they caught the negligible light of the distant sun, and he thought he suddenly understood something. “Ensign,” he told ch’Thane, “transfer the coordinates of the planet to the conn.” Vaughn paced back over to the command chair. “Shields,” he said.

“Shields up,” Bowers confirmed a moment later.

“Ensign Tenmei,” Vaughn said, “take us in over the ecliptic.” The debris of the system had spread out more or less along the plane of the solar equator. “Best speed.”

“Aye, sir,” Prynn said. Her hands moved deftly across the flight-control console, summoning Defiant’s wings. The bass hum of the engines sent deep vibrations through the ship’s structure.

Vaughn sat down and gazed toward the viewscreen again. The stars shifted and the wreckage of the system fell away as Defiantchanged its heading. Vaughn imagined the energy pulse repeating across decades, across centuries, growing ever stronger, battering planets and moons into nothing but shards, and he wondered how a lone world could have survived when nothing else had. And as Defiantbrought the crew closer to the mystery, he could only conjure up one explanation: the planet had to be the source of the pulse.

The atmosphere roiled, a cauldron of churning shadows. Currents and eddies seethed through the dark, gray sea of clouds, imparting to it an inhospitable, even violent, appearance. The cover ensphered the planet, an inexplicable mixture of aeriform elements and energy surges—energy reminiscent of the pulse itself, though on a much smaller scale.

Vaughn sat in the command chair and watched the turbulent scene on the viewscreen. Ensign ch’Thane had calculated the orbits of the Vahni world and the one below, as well as the sidereal motions of their respective stars, and verified that the pulse had come from here. Further, the science officer had utilized stable cloud masses at the poles to determine the rotational period of the planet, allowing him to pinpoint the area on the surface where the pulse had originated. Defiantcircled above that location now in a geosynchronous orbit.

“Anything?” Vaughn asked, his eyes still on the viewer, still on the heaving, twisting mass of clouds obscuring the planet. The sight put him in mind of another world, from across the galaxy and long ago, beset by the throes of a nuclear winter. In this case, he thought, the comparison might turn out to be apt.

“Negative,” ch’Thane responded, checking his readouts. “I’m still not receiving any telemetry from the probe.”

“It should emerge from the atmosphere in just under four minutes,” Lieutenant Bowers offered.

“Thank, you,” Vaughn said. When sensors, communications, and transporters had failed to penetrate the sea of clouds, Vaughn had ordered a probe launched, in the hope that it could reach the surface and gather useful data about whatever was down there. Contact with the probe had been lost as soon as it had descended into the atmospheric cover, but it had been programmed to return to the ship at a specified time.

The bridge grew quiet as the crew waited, only the gentle rumble of the thrusters intruding into the stillness. Vaughn glanced around and saw Nog and Prynn staring at the viewscreen, while Bowers and ch’Thane studied their panels. The crew seemed bound by a sense of tension, Vaughn thought, which he recognized as an amalgam of anticipation and anxiety; they wanted very much to help the Vahni, and at the same time, had doubts about whether they would be able to do so. Whatever data the probe provided would likely determine the nature and extent of the action they could take.

Vaughn recalled the terrible threat to Europa Nova not long ago, and he understood that if the Defiantcrew could not put an end to the pulses, then the Vahni would have to be evacuated from their world, just as the Europani had. Considering that first contact had only just been made, and that the Vahni did not possess warp drive, suggesting a rescue effort to Starfleet would be a delicate matter. The notion of sending a squadron of evacuation vessels into the Gamma Quadrant, and the massive logistics involved in transporting more than a thousand times as many individuals as had been moved from Europa Nova, would also not be welcomed easily. Vaughn felt certain, though, that he could convince the right admirals—and the right Federation councillors—to see the Vahni civilization saved. But unlike the Europani, the Vahni would never be able to return to their home, which would doubtless be destroyed by the next pulse.

“One minute,” Bowers announced into the silence. And then, “Thirty seconds,” and after that, “Ten.” Vaughn watched the viewscreen, though he knew the ship’s sensors would pick up the probe well before his eyes did. “Zero,” Bowers said at last.

Vaughn waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. Half a minute. The low buzzes of failure—indications of unsuccessful attempts to communicate with the probe, and to scan for it—reached Vaughn from the tactical and sciences stations. “Ensign ch’Thane?”

“There’s no contact from the probe,” he answered, a hint of disappointment rising in the science officer’s usually even voice.

“I can’t read it on sensors either,” Bowers added.

“All right,” Vaughn said, running a hand through the silver hair of his beard. “Let’s give it a little longer.” He reached over to the console to the left of the command chair. He tapped at the controls, walking his way through a couple of menus until he accessed a chronometer. He noted the ship’s time, and then allowed fifteen minutes to pass. The bridge crew said nothing, alternately checking their instruments and gazing up at the viewscreen at the convulsing atmosphere displayed there. “Report,” Vaughn finally said.

“Still no contact with the probe,” ch’Thane responded at once. Bowers simply looked up from his console and shook his head when Vaughn looked his way.

“All right,” Vaughn said. “Either the probe failed on its own, or something caused it to fail. Opinions?”

“The energy surges within the atmosphere might have affected it,” Nog suggested. “They could have shorted out or overloaded some of its systems. If guidance or propulsion were damaged, then the probe might have crashed.”

“Sir,” Prynn said, turning her chair around to face Vaughn, “even if the probe withstood the energy surges, it may not have survived its flight through the clouds.” She peered over her shoulder toward the viewscreen, at the writhing atmosphere, then looked back at him. “It looks like a rough ride.”

Vaughn nodded and stood up from the command chair. “Is it possible,” he asked the bridge crew, “that the clouds themselves are the source of the pulse?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” ch’Thane said. “There doesn’t appear to be any means within the atmosphere to generate that amount of energy. I think it more likely that the clouds have retained the energy within them as a result of the pulse passing through them from below.”

“I concur, sir,” Nog said. “The elemental composition of the clouds wouldn’t support the production of energy.” Bowers also added his concurrence.

“So we clearly need to find out what’s down there,” Vaughn said. Prynn turned back to her console as he walked toward the sciences station. He stopped to the left of the conn. “Ensign ch’Thane,” he said, “is it possible that some sections of the atmosphere are less dense than others? Or contain fewer or weaker surges?”