He stared at the whirling virtual representation of a DNA strand from Bohanon’s compromised cells—realizing as he did so that “strand” seemed a wholly insufficient term to describe what he was seeing. It was a genome, yes, but wondrously complex, encoded with far more raw biological data than he ever had seen in one place…more than he even imagined might be possible.
“Fish, talk to me.”
The physician let Desai’s plea hang unanswered, so intent was he on what he was seeing. The genetic structure dwarfed a typical human DNA strand and—according to the computer’s own messages, at least—appeared to baffle even the vast storehouse of knowledge available to him via Starfleet Medical. He entered a rapid-fire string of search requests, each one coming back unanswered or not understood by computer or the massive database with which it was communicating.
This is incredible.
Somewhere in the middle of that convoluted web of genetic code, Fisher imagined he saw the keys to uncounted medical and scientific advances, be they cures for disease, repairs to genetic defects, even enhancements to the human genome itself. There was no end to the speculation of what this might signify for the future of all known races in the universe.
Assuming somebody can figure the damn thing out.
“Doctor,” Desai said, more forcefully this time, “does this have anything to do with what happened on Erilon?”
Without looking up from his viewer, Fisher said, “I wish I could tell you.”
That the strange biochemical residue in Bohanon’s corpse was capable of crystallizing tissue was one thing, but to detect within that substance and the affected cells a genomic structure on the scale he was seeing—Fisher knew the implications were staggering.
And to think I could have retired before seeing something like this.
“Fish,” Desai said, her expression now one of concern, “what the hell is this about?”
Stroking his silvered goatee, the doctor replied, “Well, it looks like we’ll both have something to share with our friend the commodore.”
“Well, then, my timing is perfect.”
Reyes’s voice rang through the morgue, loudly enough that it startled Fisher and visibly shook Desai. The doctor looked up to see the station’s commander striding their way. “But here I am without an invitation to the party—again.”
Fisher crossed his arms, smiled wryly at Reyes. “And as usual, you don’t have a problem assuming that it wasn’t intentional.”
Desai quickly chimed in. “It’s not as much fun down here as you might think.”
“It never is,” said Reyes, letting the words hang in the air for several seconds before turning to Fisher. “Zeke, we need to talk.”
“Yes, we do,” the doctor replied, instinct telling him that the commodore’s timely arrival was more than simple coincidence.
“Is this about the Erilon incident?” Desai asked. “If so, then my team’s finished their preliminary report, and…”
“I’m sorry, Captain,” Reyes said, cutting her off. Fisher noted the almost apologetic look in his friend’s eyes as he regarded Desai. “But I’m afraid this is a security matter. Stop by my office in an hour, and I’ll take your report then. That’ll be all for now.”
Desai’s eyes went wide, and the doctor noted the tightening of her jaw, but she only nodded in response to the sudden turn of the situation. “Aye, sir,” she said, glancing toward Fisher before turning and making her way out of the morgue, leaving a grim-faced and even tired-looking Reyes standing before him.
“Something tells me this is going to be pretty interesting,” Fisher said.
25
“I’ve seen ships after they’ve suffered massive combat damage,” Commander Jon Cooper said as he stood next to Reyes on the observation platform overlooking docking bay four, “and I’ve seen them after they’ve had all but the stuffing beaten out of them by an ion storm. Hell, I was once on a recovery operation for a starship after it crashed into a moon.” For emphasis, he pointed through the transparasteel window that protected those inside the observation area from the vacuum currently engulfing the docking bay. “Commodore, not a one of them ever looked as bad as that heap of junk.”
Reyes said nothing to his executive officer, offering only a tired yet still amused smile as he and Cooper watched the U.S.S. Lovellcross the threshold of the massive space doors that separated the ravages of open space from the protective embrace of Vanguard’s docking bay. He felt a rumbling in the deck beneath his boots as the generators powering the space-dock’s tractor beams guided the Daedalus-class vessel into its parking slip.
Maintenance lights played across the battered and beaten hull of the aged vessel as it was maneuvered into position by the station’s navigational control systems. The harsh illumination served only to highlight the numerous flaws in the Lovell’s exterior. Reyes shook his head as he once again beheld pockmarked and dented hull plates—many of them only bare duranium, while others sported paint that contrasted with the ship’s overall gunmetal gray paint scheme. Visible weld lines joined a few of the plates, evidence of repair work conducted without the comfort and features of a well-equipped ship-maintenance facility.
Not that odd,Reyes reminded himself, considering the entire crew is composed of engineers.
Far from a pristine vessel and possessing absolutely nothing akin to the aesthetic beauty Reyes likened to more modern starships, the Lovellnevertheless was a testament to an engineering philosophy and quality of design that had proven its worth to Starfleet and the Federation for more than a century. Its spherical primary hull leading a stocky, cylindrical engineering section and ribbed warp nacelles certainly lacked the streamlined grace of a more modern Constitution-class ship, but Reyes also could see the resolve and tenacity of the era from which it had been born echoed in its rougher, coarser lines.
Among the first model of vessels produced in large numbers following the founding of the Federation more than a century earlier, Daedalus-class starships had proven their worth as instruments of both deep-space exploration and defense as the fledgling cooperative of united worlds made their first joint forays into the vast unknown reaches of the galaxy.
Easily constructed and maintained, the ships made up for their bland appearance and lack of creature comforts found on other vessels of the period with a rugged durability. Though the last of them had been removed from active Starfleet use near the end of the last century, a few Daedalusships had survived to enjoy extended life in the hands of civilian shipmasters.
Then, there was the Lovell.
Before his initial encounter with the ship and its crew of engineering specialists, Reyes had not even known that any Daedalus-class vessels were being used by Starfleet in any capacity. It therefore had come as somewhat of a surprise when the Lovellarrived at Vanguard months ago to assist in the final system installation and adjustments necessary to bring the station to full operational capability in accordance with its accelerated schedule. His amazement only deepened upon learning that the aged yet still reliable workhorse was one of three currently in service to Starfleet’s Corps of Engineers.
“For the love of all that’s good and holy in the universe,” Cooper said a moment later as the decrepit-looking ship slowed to a stop within the confines of its parking slip, “will someone please tell me what the hell is keeping that beast from exploding all over the docking bay?”
Standing behind the exec and Reyes, Lieutenant Isaiah Farber unleashed one of his trademark wide, toothy smiles as he replied, “Strategic placement of forcefields, Commander, along with thermoconcrete and what I assume is the kindness of at least three different benevolent deities.”