Текст книги "Summon the Thunder"

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

21

Quinn was snoring. Again.

Pennington glared sideways at the disheveled privateer who sat slumped in his pilot’s chair, dozing and oblivious of the stink of stale sweat and distilled, recycled air permeating the Rocinante’s cockpit as he slept off his latest drunk. Of course, Pennington realized, it could be argued that this was in fact an extension of the same continuous state of intoxication the hapless rogue had seemingly fostered throughout the last several decades of his life.

After three days aboard Quinn’s cramped and none-too-pleasant refuse scow of a ship while en route to Yerad III, Pennington’s exasperation with the vessel’s messy interior had all but reached its limit. Though he had made an attempt to tidy up, as a way of passing the time as much as anything, he soon had surrendered to the unalterable, unkempt reality that was the Rocinante.

The small galley at the rear of the passenger compartment boasted stains and particles from sources that might have once been intended for human consumption. Nothing short of sandblasting—or perhaps a photon torpedo—would likely prove effective at cleaning the place now. The “sleeping quarters” consisted of a pair of hammocks, one for himself and one for Quinn, fashioned from sections of woven cargo netting. While the lavatory had given him cause for concern, the shower area was reasonably sanitary, though Pennington figured that owed to Quinn’s evident disinterest in using it.

Charming,Pennington had thought upon getting his first look at the accommodations.

If there was any consolation to be had during this journey, the journalist decided that it came from its lack of interruption by representatives of the Klingon Empire or the Tholian Assembly—or the Federation, for that matter. Despite several long-range sensor contacts detecting ships from all three parties, the Rocinantehad managed so far to avoid attracting unwanted attention. How that even was possible was a mystery to Pennington, particularly considering the ability of the starhopper’s pilot, or apparent lack of same.

As though offering a blatant show of reinforcement to his assessment, Quinn remained as he had been during the bulk of the past three days: sleeping. His jaw slack as his stubbled chin rested against his chest, a line of drool ran from the corner of his mouth, extending to the edge of his collar and quivering like a violin string every time Quinn drew a tortured, snore-racked breath.

Grimy bastard.

Any remaining nerves Pennington might still possess after seventy-two hours spent with the near comatose trader fled as an indicator tone echoed through the cramped cockpit. Startled by the abrupt alarm, he leaned forward in his chair to examine the rows of dials, gauges, and digital readouts cluttering the helm console.

“Finally!” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. At long last, they were about to set down somewhere, anywhere. Fresh air, chilled spirits, and perhaps something to eat that did not come from a ration pack awaited. Turning to the slumbering Quinn, Pennington kicked the pilot’s seat. “Get up, dammit.”

Quinn roused with a startled snort, coughing and hacking as he wiped spittle from his mouth. Looking about the cockpit with eyes still dulled from sleep, he turned to Pennington.

“What the hell was thatfor?”

“We’re about to drop out of warp,” Pennington said, shaking his head. “While I have serious doubt as to your ability to set us down in one piece, I trust you marginally more than I do this bucket’s automatic pilot.”

“Huh,” Quinn said as he straightened in his seat, wiping sleep from his eyes. “I’ve got an autopilot?” Pennington sneered as the privateer offered a sloppy smirk.

Guess that’s his idea of a joke.

His attention focused on the console before him, Quinn said, “This’ll be no big deal, you know. We’ll be in and out. The guy knows we’re coming to get him.”

The words offered no assurance to Pennington whatsoever. “Does he know we’re coming today?”

Looking up in response to the question, Quinn cocked his head as if lost in thought. “Huh,” he said. “Damn if I know.”

“Oh, that’s just bleeding fantastic,”Pennington said. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

Quinn shrugged. “With me, it’s hard to tell.” An indicator light flashed on the helm console and he pointed to it. “Here we go. Dropping to impulse.”

His fingers moved over several of the smudged controls and Pennington felt a shudder run through the Rocinante’s hull. Beyond the cockpit’s transparent canopy, blue-red streaks shrank to distant points of light as the ship emerged from subspace.

Dropping into or out of warp so close to a planet was supposed to be dangerous, according to what little Pennington had read or heard on the subject, though Quinn certainly seemed comfortable with the notion. No doubt he had experienced many occasions where such a maneuver was necessary. Pennington had no time to ask, as the first thing he saw was the green-brown sphere of Yerad III looming ahead of them. Then a shadow fell across the cockpit and Pennington lurched back in his seat as he found himself staring at the underside of a Rigelian merchant freighter.

“Holy hell!” he shouted, his fingers digging into his chair’s armrests.

“Relax,” Quinn snapped, his hands dancing across his console, and Pennington sensed inertial dampeners kicking in as the Rocinanteangled down and away from the other ship, aiming for the atmosphere of Yerad III. “I’ve got everything under control.”

Pennington’s entire body still shook along with the ship as he glared at the scruffy pilot. “Sometimes, I really hate you.”

“Yeah?” Quinn asked as the trembling finally began to subside. “Feel free to catch a ride home with the next guy.”

Grunting in irritation, Pennington said nothing more as the Rocinantesliced through the skies of Yerad III. A check of the ship’s rudimentary scanners told him that the area of the planet over which they were flying was devoid of any cities, settlements, or other indications of civilization. He knew nothing about the planet—or the Yerad system at all, in fact—an admission that put him ill at ease. As a reporter, he prided himself on being well informed when going anywhere or meeting anyone, but he was ignorant of just about anything pertaining to this remote rock at the hind end of space. For the sake of his slowly returning professional pride, Pennington rationalized his situation as understandable, given the lack of notice he had about their destination combined with the Rocinante’s all-but-useless library computer.

Figures I have to be stuck aboard the one ship in the Taurus Reach that’s even dumber than its pilot.

“Just leave the talking to me, okay?”

Pennington shrugged in response to Quinn’s request as the pair made their way up a stone walkway leading from the busy market street toward an area of calm and serenity. An immaculately groomed lawn, replete with trees, shrubbery, and several small gardens teeming with exotic plants and flowers, surrounded what the journalist saw as an unassuming home. The quaint, one-level, unpainted prefab structure reminded Pennington of the houses built by the dozens on flourishing colony worlds throughout the Federation. Rustic, peaceful, and isolated, the place struck him as downright pleasant to behold.

Stepping onto the house’s porch and approaching the heavy wooden door that was adorned only with a large brass knocker and a small circle which Pennington recognized as a peephole, Quinn wasted no time shattering the courtyard’s tranquillity. “Hey!” he yelled as he pounded on the door with his fist. “Sakud Armnoj? You home? Hellooooo?”

“No need to shout, you know,” Pennington said, his hands in his pockets as he moved to stand beside the pilot.

From behind the door, a nasally, whiny voice called out, “You don’t have to shout. And thanks for using the knocker. Moron.” Pennington noted a flash of light through the peephole, realizing that they were being watched by whoever was inside the house. “Oh, pardon me. Morons,”the voice amended.

“Just open up,” Quinn said, putting his hands on his hips. “My name’s Quinn. Ganz sent me to get you and take you to him.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?” the voice asked. “You could be trying to kill me for all I know.”

“Assassins don’t announce themselves by banging on your door, you wanker,” Pennington snapped, earning him an appreciative glance from Quinn. “Now open the bloody door.”

There was a pause before Pennington heard the occupant disengage a series of bolts and locks—enough to sound as though a prison cell were being opened—before the door swung aside to reveal a Zakdorn dressed in what appeared to be a geisha’s robe and thong sandals. His pasty complexion was broken only by the series of ridges jutting from his cheeks. What little hair he possessed on the sides of his head was brown and cut close to his scalp. He regarded Quinn and Pennington with black eyes.

“No need to be testy about it,” he said. “One has to be careful around here, after all. You can’t go opening your doors for strangers.”

“Your door’s open now,” Quinn said, his expression deadpan. “We might still be here to kill you.”

The Zakdorn—Armnoj, presumably—waved away the suggestion. “I’ve known you were coming for three days. Ganz’s people contacted me and sent me a complete file on you.” His eyes narrowing as he regarded Pennington, the wormy little humanoid added, “They didn’t send anything about you, though.”

“I’m his caddy,” the journalist replied, making no effort to hide his mounting annoyance. To Quinn, he asked, “Can we get on with this?”

The pilot nodded. “Absolutely.” Turning his attention back to the Zakdorn, he said, “Mr. Armnoj—if that’s who you are—we need to be going. Ganz wants you and your accounting records in front of him before the end of the week.” He shrugged. “Of course, you could always just transmit the files to him over subspace. You know, save us all a lot of heartache.”

Armnoj released a boorish grunt. “That would hardly be helpful. All of my files are encoded with a multi-quad encryption algorithm capable of thwarting any attempts at unauthorized access. I designed the software myself, including a self-regenerating cipher that allows for unparalleled data security.”

“Wonderful,” Quinn said, rolling his eyes. “Well, you and your encoded multi-quad whatever-the-

hell-you-call-them need to get packed. We’re a bit pressed for time, here.”

Shaking his head, the Zakdorn affected an expression of disapproval. “You’ll have to come back later. I’m on my way to the sauna.”

Pennington noted that Quinn was making a valiant effort to maintain his composed demeanor. Drawing a deep breath, the privateer clasped his hands behind his back and attempted to smile. “No time for that, sir. Ganz said he wanted you back as soon as possible. It’s a long trip, and the sooner we get started, the happier everybody will be.”

Armnoj sniffed the air with evident disdain. “Very well, but you’ll just have to wait while I change into traveling attire and pack a few things.” Eyeing them both, he added, “You may come in, but kindly refrain from sitting on my furniture.” He turned and walked back into the house, muttering something Pennington could not hear before saying, “You can be sure Mr. Ganz will hear about your lack of courtesy. I’m not in the habit of being treated this way.”

Alone on the porch, Quinn and Pennington exchanged stares and shrugs.

“Nice guy,” Quinn growled. “Reminds me of my first wife.”

“She was that ugly?” Pennington asked.

“That, and talking to her for two minutes was usually enough to make me want to launch her out a photon torpedo tube.”

Stepping through the door after Quinn, Pennington noted that the inside of the accountant’s home was as well appointed as its exterior. His boots sank into plush woven carpeting, and he looked longingly at the trio of overstuffed chairs positioned around the sitting room. The rest of the chamber’s furniture was equally opulent, and a collection of expensive-looking curios populated shelves and hutches. He recognized the spiced aroma of a notably expensive Zakdorn incense scenting the air.

Being a crime lord’s bookkeeper definitely has its advantages.

“You live here alone?” Pennington called out toward the room into which he had seen Armnoj disappear.

“Of course,” the Zakdorn replied from what Pennington presumed was the accountant’s bedchambers. “I like it that way.”

“Yeah,” Quinn said, low enough so that only Pennington could hear, “because the ladies are kicking and scratching to get in here.” In a louder voice, he asked, “Aren’t you afraid someone might come by to cause trouble?”

“Never happened before,” Armnoj replied. “Besides, I have Sniffy.”

Exchanging looks with Quinn, Pennington frowned. “Sniffy?”

“Guy doesn’t get out much, does he?” Quinn remarked. “File me under ‘shocked,’ why don’t you?”

As if in response to the conversation, Pennington’s attention was attracted to the sounds of movement across the carpeted floor and he turned to see…something…waddling into the room. Seemingly a cross between a dog and a walrus, the animal appeared to be encased in blubber draped in smooth, brown hair. It whipped its spindly front legs while dragging its hindquarters more or less uselessly. With wide nostrils and puffy cheeks, the creature managed to make its way close to the duo before settling in and squinting at them with beady, black eyes.

“Sniffy, I presume,” Quinn said.

Frowning as he regarded the animal, which appeared harmless, Pennington asked, “What the hell is that?”

Armnoj emerged from his bedroom, dressed in a colorful silken shirt and matching trousers. “Why, he’s a slijm,”the Zakdorn said, “and a fine one, too. Pedigreed.”

Uh-oh,Pennington thought.

As if reading his mind, Quinn held up a hand in warning. “It can’t go with us.”

“Out of the question,” Armnoj declared. “He’s hardly been out of my care his entire life. He means everything to me. I can’t leave him.”

Rolling his eyes, Pennington said, “Surely you have contingencies when you travel on business.” I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation.

Armnoj crossed his arms, saying nothing.

“I don’t have any room on my ship, anyway,” Quinn said. Casting a doubtful look toward the animal, he added, “Besides, it doesn’t look like it’d even make it to the spaceport.”

“Spaceport?” the Zakdorn repeated, his eyes wide with anxiety as he shook his head rapidly. “That simply won’t do. I don’t fly suborbital. You’ll have to fetch yourself a suitable ship and come back.”

“’Fraid that’s not going to happen, either,” Quinn said, his patience obviously nearing its end. Stepping forward, he reached to take Armnoj by the arm. “We’re wasting time. Let’s go.”

“I can’t fly, I tell you. I can’t!” The accountant attempted to wrest himself from Quinn’s grasp just as Sniffy reacted to the commotion.

“Calm down, will you?” Quinn asked as he tightened his grip. “We’ve got a schedule to keep.”

“Stop it, Quinn,” Pennington said, forcing a calm voice and trying to restore some measure of peace as he stepped closer. “Mr. Armnoj, please…”

Armnoj cried out in what seemed like dire pain, the tone and pitch of his voice so loud and piercing that Pennington feared for the nearby glassware. At the same time, Sniffy moved with more animation than the journalist ever would have expected, rearing up a bit on its flabby, wedge-shaped body and loosing from its snout a booming sneeze.

Throwing his arm up as a cloud of yellow-green mucus flew from the animal’s nose, Pennington ducked as the viscous outburst saturated his arm and hand. Then his eyes widened in fear as he realized that his bare hand, sprayed with the tacky fluid, seemed to burn and tingle as if he had reached out toward an open flame.

“Bloody hell!” he cried as he wiped his hand on his shirt, an action that only seemed to heighten the sensation. “Oww!”

“That’s a boy, Sniffy,” Armnoj said, leering in Pennington’s direction as he kneeled down to pet the spent beast. “That’s a goodboy.”

“Good boy, my ass,” Quinn said, reaching into his jacket to retrieve a stun pistol, essentially the civilian equivalent of a phaser. He aimed the weapon at Armnoj. “Now, get the hell up!” Looking over his shoulder to Pennington, he called out, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” the journalist replied, his eyes widening upon seeing the weapon in Quinn’s hand. “Put that thing away!” With relief, he noted that the burning on his skin was subsiding, and he detected no other injury to his hand. “I’m okay. It fades after a minute.” He noticed that the pilot somehow had managed to avoid the mucous shower save for some spotting on his soiled jacket.

Figures.

“Yeah? Well, so does this,” Quinn said as he fired his stun pistol. The whine of energy filled the room and an ice-blue beam lanced from the weapon, washing over Armnoj and the slijm. The two slumped to the carpet.

Pennington stood frozen in place, keeping his still tingling hand wedged under his opposite armpit. Staring at Quinn, he noted the odd expression that crossed the pilot’s features.

“Damn,” Quinn said, suddenly appearing as forlorn as he might be upon learning that the alcohol content of every intoxicant in the quadrant had been neutralized. “Ah, shit.”

“What?” Pennington asked, dreading the answer.

“I’m supposed to bring Ganz this guy’s accounting records,” Quinn replied, “and I don’t know where they are.”

Nodding in resignation, Pennington said, “Probably should have gotten that information before you shot him.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Quinn replied as he returned the stun pistol to the inside pocket of his jacket. Looking around the room, he shook his head. “We’ll never find them in this place.”

“You think?” Pennington exclaimed, starting to pace around the perimeter of the room. “What in hell do we do now?”

“Wait for him to wake up,” Quinn said. Nodding in the direction of the door, he added, “If you’re bored, you could try to rustle up a Sniffy-sitter.”

Releasing an exasperated sigh, Pennington shook his head as he considered their current situation, which was becoming more ridiculous with each passing minute. Even if and when they finally managed to get off this godforsaken planet, they still had to travel to the Jinoteur system in order to complete the mysterious assignment Quinn had been given by T’Prynn.

Bollocks.

“We’re never getting to Boam II, are we?” he asked.

Quinn shrugged. “Don’t see why not. To be honest, we’re ahead of schedule.”

“Right,” Pennington replied as he reached for the unconscious Zakdorn’s arm and pulled him to his feet. Dragging Armnoj across the room, he allowed the sleeping accountant to fall without ceremony onto a nearby couch. That done, he indicated the stunned Sniffy with a nod. “You get that one.”

He was sure he saw Quinn’s hand flinch toward his stun pistol.

22

His satchel slung over one shoulder and leaving behind the growing crowd of station personnel who had come to welcome home crew members departing the Endeavour,Xiong made his way with all due haste from the gangway and away from the space-dock’s main terminal. No one awaited his arrival, and he certainly had no desire to engage in any of the emotionally mixed greetings currently being bestowed upon his shipmates.

They’re notyour shipmates,he reminded himself as he stepped along with three other passengers into a waiting turbolift.

Even as the thought surfaced, Xiong pushed it away. While he might not be a permanent member of the Endeavour’s crew, he had stood beside them during crisis and tragedy. Their captain had died saving his life, sacrificing himself with bravery and resolve as he likely would have for any of the men and women under his command. In all the ways that truly mattered, those people were his brothers and sisters, and the grief they endured over their loss was his to bear, as well.

Forcing away the unpleasant line of thought, Xiong instead tried to focus on his surroundings as the turbolift descended into the depths of the station. He waited patiently as the lift slowed to a stop at different levels, allowing the other patients to disembark. Thankfully, no one else arrived to take their place, and he was able to complete the rest of his own journey in solitude.

The lift brought him to a stop on one of the station’s cargo decks, and Xiong adopted a casual stride as he made his way down the corridor, doing his best to affect the illusion of just another member of the crew going about his duties. He maintained the charade until he arrived at his destination, an office marked like those around it with a simple location designator label: CA/194-6.

Entering the room, which was furnished with standard-issue Starfleet office furniture—a desk and two chairs—and featured no extraneous decorations of any kind, Xiong ensured the door was locked before stepping around the large gray desk and without preamble placing his right hand flat against the room’s rear wall. A soft, ruby glow emanated from the wall panel underneath his hand, after which a section of the bulkhead slid aside without so much as a whisper of sound to reveal a pair of red doors. They slid apart, revealing a corridor illuminated in stark, bright white.

Home at last.

His eyes squinting as they adjusted to the sudden shift in light intensity, Xiong stepped through the doorway and into the quite familiar passageway, which extended fifteen meters to another set of doors. These were transparent, offering the lieutenant a view of the hive of activity carrying on behind them. Only when the doors slid aside at his approach was he bathed in the ambient sounds and atmosphere of this, the surreptitious heart of the Vanguard station.

To those who even knew of its existence, it was referred to simply as the Vault.

Xiong entered the expansive laboratory area, not for the first time thinking that if the hallway was a river of white then this place was the milky sea into which it emptied. Floors, tabletops, furniture, and equipment, nearly all of it appearing pristine and colorless. The main floor was partitioned into groupings of smaller rooms, some outfitted with tables and chairs for conferencing while others housed scientific equipment designed for specific and sensitive studies. Nearly all of the sectioned-off areas featured at least two walls composed of transparent aluminum, adding to the lab’s sense of enormity.

More than a dozen scientists and researchers were in view as Xiong moved through the lab, manning assorted workstations and equipment. A quartet of workers sat huddled in one of the conference niches, their attention so focused that they did not notice the lieutenant as he walked past on his way to his private lab and office.

While they and the rest of the twenty-two people working in this facility all were listed among Vanguard’s crew as serving a variety of assignments ranging from stellar cartography to waste reclamation—duties for which they actually were qualified, as a matter of fact—those designations were almost exclusively a cover for their real activities supporting Lieutenant Xiong. Despite their myriad functions, they as well as all of the assets in this part of the station—which included its own self-contained dormitory and dining areas—were gathered here for a single goal: solving the mystery of the Taurus Reach.

Unlike the main lab’s meeting areas, personal workspaces offered more in the way of privacy. Tapping a code on the keypad next to his door granted him access to his office. Ignoring the stacks of reports, data slates, books, computer cartridges, and other detritus cluttering the room, Xiong was barely able to toss his satchel onto the cot occupying space along his workspace’s far wall when he heard a voice from behind him.

“Lieutenant!” came the loud, boisterous call, and Xiong turned to see a short, portly Tellarite lumbering across the lab toward him, dressed in a white lab coat that hung well below his knees. “You’re back!” With large tufts of gray hair sticking out from the sides of his wide, wrinkled face, and moving with a speed that belied his age, Dr. Varech jav Gek offered a wide smile filled with jagged, irregular teeth as he approached with spread arms.

Smiling, Xiong nodded in greeting. “Hello, Dr. Gek,” Xiong said, stepping around his desk as his colleague walked into the office.

“It is good to see you,” Gek said as he dropped without invitation into the only chair besides Xiong’s which was empty of assorted flotsam. “We’ve been hearing many different stories, you know.”

Frowning, Xiong sat down in his own chair. “Stories? From whom?”

Gek waved as if to clear away the lieutenant’s skepticism. “Oh, you know how we all tend to talk down here.” He offered a small, nervous laugh. “After our data feed from Erilon was cut off, well, you know how rumors can start. Then, Commodore Reyes told us about the attack on the Endeavourand the research team, and then, well, I mean…the idea of a life-form being found among the ruins? Well, that’s just…”

Certain he was unhappy with the notion of the Endeavour’s last mission and the tragic circumstances surrounding it becoming gossip fodder, Xiong tapped his finger atop his desk. “Don’t believe everything you might have heard and misunderstood, Doctor. As yet, we have no explanations for what happened at the site.”

Gek chuckled, a gesture Xiong found as obvious as it was clumsy. “Oh, I know, I know! But, you have to admit it’s fascinating to think about. After all, the Erilon artifacts are a million years…”

“We don’t know that,” Xiong interrupted.

“Um, hundreds of thousandsof years old,” the Tellarite amended. “Regardless, the idea of finding a life-form inside is astounding!” He paused as if awaiting affirmation. When Xiong remained silent, Gek cleared his throat and sat a bit straighter in his seat. “What did it look like? The life-form, I mean.”

“It looked pretty damn deadlyis what it looked like,” Xiong snapped, doing nothing to curb the irritation brewing in response to Gek’s callous badgering. As the Tellarite regarded him in wide-eyed silence, Xiong recognized that part of his colleague’s insensitivity stemmed from his cultural upbringing. As a race, Tellarites typically exhibited the same temperament and level of interpersonal tact as…

As you.

“Well, that is…I was merely curious, Lieutenant,” Gek said, breaking the suddenly awkward silence.

Sighing as he sank back into his chair, Xiong shook his head. “I know, Gek. I’m just…tired, that’s all.” While he was not at all interested in recounting what had occurred on Erilon, he recognized that his friend was the most logical person in whom to confide. In addition to being one of Starfleet’s top minds in theoretical chemistry and molecular physics, the excitable researcher also was the person most likely to spread details of Xiong’s observations among their colleagues, sparing Xiong from having to share the details more than once.

“I saw a good number of people die at that thing’s hands, Gek,” he said after a moment, his gaze fixating—for no apparent reason—on one particular data slate sitting atop the stacks of paperwork on his desk. “It’s not that easy for me to be so objective about it.”

Hesitantly at first and then with greater ease, Xiong described the attack in detail as well as the perpetrator, at one point stifling a chill as he recalled the towering black apparition and the carnage it had wrought. To his surprise, Gek said nothing, obviously trying to restrain himself from prying or pushing for more information than Xiong was willing to give.

“I’ve never heard of anything like you describe,” Gek said, when Xiong paused in his recitation. “Can you recall anything else?”

Xiong shook his head. “Not really, no.” Shrugging, he added, “There just wasn’t much to it, but I remember every detail of what I saw. It’s not something I’m likely to forget.”

“No, that’s all right,” Gek said, his smile forced in an obvious attempt to conceal his disappointment at the lack of detail in Xiong’s description. “I imagine it was quite the frightening experience.”

“Yes,” Xiong replied, offering a slow nod, “it was. I was sure I was going to die.”

His expression displaying frank discomfort at the open admission, Gek stammered, “I’m…well, we’re…glad you didn’t, Lieutenant.”

The Tellarite’s uneasiness was not difficult to understand, Xiong knew. Neither of them had ever shown a propensity for talking to one another—or anyone else, for that matter—about subjects outside the scope of their official duties. The lieutenant had always viewed such a separation as being important, a perspective he believed had served him well on this assignment in particular.

Following the events on Erilon, and the continuing need he felt to talk to someone, anyone, about what had happened, Xiong decided his earlier stance now required reexamination.

Gek, as if sensing that the time might be right for a change of subject, rose from his chair. “Anyway, Lieutenant, when you’re…well…ready, we’ve been collating the new information transmitted to us from the research team on Erilon.” His voice faltering as he spoke the last word, the Tellarite cleared his throat once more. “That is, before we stopped receiving their feeds. We’ve been running various tests between their findings and those from Ravanar IV, and our preliminary results might interest you.”

“Really?” Xiong asked, his interest piqued.

He followed Gek to one of the conference niches, the main table of which was festooned with several slates and data cards of assorted colors as well as a tri-sided tabletop display monitor and a workstation interface. Waiting until the doctor settled himself at the computer station, he watched as Gek’s puffy hands played over the rows of switches, activating the tabletop monitors.

“As you can see,” Gek said as he pointed to the viewer, “we’ve created a comprehensive mapping of the genetic sequence found in the samples collected on Ravanar IV.”

Though he had seen computer-generated images of meta-genome samples countless times since being assigned to this project, as he studied the image arrayed on the viewer, Xiong once again found himself drawn in by the unparalleled complexity of what he was seeing. Determined to possess more than three million nucleotide subunits, the genetic information encoded within the DNA samples found on Ravanar IV far outstripped the ability of the human mind to comprehend. Equally staggering, he knew, was the potential the meta-genome possessed to alter the fundamental understanding of life itself.