This was far worse, much more intense than the thought-pulse that had gripped them all several cycles ago. The brutal, hostile surge of psionic energy, emanating from that area of space long ago forsaken and shunned by the Assembly, had disrupted the Lattice for many cycles after its immediate effects and distressed the totality of the Tholian race.

Clamoring sirens of havoc and dread all but drowned out Falstrene [The Gray]. Anger! Vengeance!

Eskrene resisted the urge to sever her connection, fighting instead to maintain her telepathic balance and restore focal harmony with the Castemoot. It harbors a greater purpose.

Indeed, she realized even as she fought through the pain, this latest violation of Tholian serenity scorned description and resisted comparison, shrouding itself in veils of opaque black even as it mercilessly trampled through their collective essence.

Reaching out with her mind, Eskrene sensed the disorder stressing much of the SubLink, though already she could feel the minds of Tholians across the Lattice toiling to reassert its harmony and balance as the force of the thought-pulse began to dissipate, taking with it the rage and turmoil it had wrought. She also perceived that despite their combined efforts, the peace of the expansive Castemoot was severely fractured.

The conclave and—Eskrene also realized with growing dread—all of the Assembly now cowered in fear.

It will return. We must stop it.

12

On the bridge of the Endeavour,Khatami watched as Klisiewicz worked feverishly at the science station, all the while fighting the urge to push the ensign aside and take over manning the console herself. Annoyed even for considering that course of action, the first officer issued a silent order to herself to remain seated in the captain’s chair and to carry out her own duties, part of which entailed trusting the people around her to see to their own assigned tasks.

“Ensign,” she called out, “what’s happening?”

Pulling away from the hooded viewer dominating his station and turning to face her, Klisiewicz replied, “Holding at seven active power sources, Commander. Each seems to have a central power core, with temperatures ranging between eleven hundred and fourteen hundred degrees Kelvin and rising.”

“Are we continuing to update Erilon Base?” she asked, but waved the question away before Klisiewicz could answer. “Of course you are. I’m sorry, Ensign. Keep monitoring those power readings and update me as needed.”

Stop acting like a mother hen, and let your people do their jobs.

“Commander,” Lieutenant Estrada called from the communications station. “We’re receiving an emergency call from the camp. They say they’re under attack!”

Khatami’s mind quickly flooded with questions, but she pushed them aside, following her thoughts to lead by the book. Slapping the control panel on the arm of the command chair with her open palm, she activated the shipboard communications circuit. “Bridge to transporter room two. Commence emergency beam-out procedures!”

“Commander!” Klisiewicz shouted over her order. “Power readings just spiked off the scale! We…”

The ensign’s next words were lost as a hammer blow rocked the Endeavour. Khatami felt the deck disappear beneath her feet as the bridge pitched almost on its port side, tossing her out of her chair and sending her slamming face-first against the bridge railing surrounding the command well. Stars danced in her vision and she felt a distinctive pop as her jaw struck the rail. A bitter metallic taste flooded her mouth and she reached to feel where she was certain teeth were either loose or missing. She winced as her fingers made contact with her jaw, and when she pulled them away their tips were tinged dark red.

Lighting flickered and red-alert klaxons wailed across the bridge as Khatami forced herself to her feet, shaking her head in an attempt to regain her senses and keeping her jaw clenched tightly shut against the dull pain enveloping the lower half of her face. The smell and taste of acrid electrical smoke gagged Khatami as she staggered to her feet. Over the din of sirens and unfettered chatter exploding from the communications station, she heard one voice shouting to he heard.

“Damage report!” Mog called out, pulling himself up from where he had fallen near the turbolift at the rear of the bridge. With speed that belied his bulk, the Tellarite engineer moved across the upper deck to where Khatami now saw Estrada’s unmoving form at the floor of the communications station, a pool of red widening from his head. “Klisiewicz!” he bellowed as he knelt before the fallen lieutenant. “Get a medic up here, and get me that damage report!”

Grabbing a Feinberger receiver from his own console, Klisiewicz retuned it to accept information from Estrada’s station before jamming the cylindrical silver device into his right ear. Khatami saw him wince, as if overwhelmed by the initial onslaught of status reports and requests for assistance that had to be sweeping across the ship’s internal communications network. Squinting his eyes as if trying to ward off the wave of information he was receiving, the ensign reached to adjust a volume control.

“Casualties all over, sir,” he said a moment later. “Hull breaches on decks seven, eight, and nine. Damage-control parties are responding. Artificial gravity is out in the primary hull below deck five. Weapons control reports that phasers are offline. Transporters are also offline.”

“Shields?” Khatami asked as she fumbled toward the command chair. What just happened to us?

Klisiewicz nodded. “They activated automatically the moment the sensors detected…whatever it was that hit us. They’re holding at sixty-seven percent, but shield generators are online and recharging.”

Cradling her jaw in the palm of her right hand, Khatami all but fell into the center seat as she noted a shadow fall across her. She looked up to see Mog standing next to her chair, his expression one of concern.

“You all right, Commander?”

Khatami nodded silently, every attempt to talk bringing with it a stabbing pain along her jawline and inside her mouth. Gripping the sides of her face with both hands, she took a deep breath before jerking to her right, realigning her jaw with an audible pop and an agonizing jolt of fire that would have dropped her to her knees if she had not already been sitting. As it was, she felt herself begin to pitch forward only to be stopped by Mog’s meaty hand.

“By Kera and Phinda, woman,” the Tellarite said. “What can I do?”

“Tell…them,” she said in a strained whisper through gritted teeth, each of which felt like spikes driving into her gums. “Give…the orders.”

“I have to coordinate damage control,” Mog replied. Looking up, he pointed to Klisiewicz. “Ensign, you are the commander’s mouth. Relay her orders wherever they need to go. Understand?”

Her vision blurred owing to the tears welling up in her eyes as she fought back pain, Khatami saw Klisiewicz offer an uncertain nod as he stepped down into the command well, moving close enough that she could keep her voice low.

“Hail the captain,” she whispered, every word a knife plunging through her tortured jaw, “the camp, anyone. And I want…transporters up… now!”

Klisiewicz looked around until he spotted Ensign Halse at the environmental-control station. “Halse, take over the comm station. Hail the captain.” As the nervous young man rose from his chair to cross the bridge, the ensign added, “And get engineering on those transporters!”

“My people are on it, Commander,” Mog said from where he sat at the engineering station. Completing his preliminary survey of the ship’s onboard systems, he turned to lean over the bridge railing so that only Klisiewicz and Khatami could hear him. “And there’s no need to get carried away, Ensign.” He delivered the words with a grunt and a weak smile as he clapped Klisiewicz on the shoulder before returning to his station.