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  The

  Taurus Reach

  2265

  Chapter

  1

  Stardate 1256.9

  Turning from where he knelt next to an open access panel that revealed a maze of circuitry and conduits hidden behind the nondescript gray bulkhead, Lieutenant Mahmud al-Khaled rose to his feet and dashed toward the row of consoles lining the opposite wall of the environmental control substation. The room, like its nine counterparts scattered throughout the massive space station, was crammed full of computer workstations and display monitors as well as banks of gauges, dials, and switches.

  “Try it now!”

  Lieutenant Isaiah Farber, one of the more talented members of al-Khaled’s team, tapped several buttons arranged in multicolored rows across the console’s polished black surface, the controls looking almost tiny beneath his massive hands. Muscled and broad-shouldered, Farber appeared on the verge of ripping through the gold uniform tunic stretching across his chest and back.

  Looking up at one of the display monitors set into the bulkhead just above eye level, Farber grimaced. “Nothing. We’re still locked out of everything.”

  “Damn it,” al-Khaled snapped. “This doesn’t make any sense.” According to every diagnostic conducted by him and his team, the environmental control system should have been operating within acceptable parameters. There was no reason for it not to be, as it, along with everything else aboard Starbase 47, was practically brand-new.

  “Report!” said Lieutenant Curtis Ballard, the station’s chief engineer, from where he worked at another station. “Is that section sealed off yet?”

  From an adjacent console, a female ensign nodded, her own face a mask of anxiety. “Yes, sir,” replied the young Asian woman, who al-Khaled remembered was named Tamishiro. “Ventilation ducts and all hatches leading to those areas are locked down.”

  Ballard nodded, and al-Khaled saw the sweat running down the side of the man’s face. The report was short and terse, but al-Khaled knew, as did everyone else in the room, what it meant. Anyone still occupying those sections was now trapped, unable to escape the poison rapidly taking the place of breathable atmosphere.

  “Environmental control’s treating it like it would any section of the station with differing atmosphere requirements,” al-Khaled said. “It won’t let us just open a door without an adjacent section configured to act as an airlock.” Shaking his head,
he added, “Trouble is, it won’t let us do that, either.”

  “Get computer control on that lockout,” Ballard ordered, slapping the console with the heel of his hand as he continued to work. “How many people are still in that section?”

  It took several seconds for Tamishiro to call up the relevant data from the station’s internal sensor network. “Thirty-six, sir.”

  Pointing to another of the display monitors, Ballard said, “Tell the maintenance teams to start cutting through the doors. We’ll force them open manually and seal off adjacent sections once we get those people out of there.” With the sleeves of his gold tunic pushed up above his elbows and smudges of some unidentified substance dirtying his otherwise pale, unremarkable features, the man looked every bit like a harried mechanic frustrated with his inability to understand why the machines under his care were refusing to cooperate.

  Al-Khaled sympathized with his fellow engineer, particularly in light of the current situation. Of course, the dilemma they now faced was only the latest in a string of problems that had plagued Ballard and his staff for weeks as they struggled to ready for operation Starfleet’s newest deep space outpost, designated Starbase 47, or its more colloquial name, Vanguard.

  For reasons currently surpassing understanding, systems across the mammoth Watchtower-class station were beset by irregular yet frequent malfunctions. Sensors, communications, life support, computer interfaces, and their related components all had fallen victim to such troubles, sometimes two or three times within the same twenty-four-hour period, each time requiring repeated readjustment, realignment, or retuning. In short, none of the station’s more sensitive systems had worked properly with any consistency since their activation. The spate of anomalies had tested Starbase 47’s talented cadre of engineers to the point that the base’s commanding officer, Commodore Diego Reyes, had called for assistance in the form of Starfleet’s Corps of Engineers, specifically, Lieutenant Al-Khaled and his team assigned to the U.S.S. Lovell.

  Before today, the malfunctions had been merely annoying—all while evading resolution with relentless determination. Now, for the first time, they were proving to be life-threatening.

  “Atmosphere mixture continuing,” Tamishiro reported, shaking her head. “Methane concentration increasing. Ambient temperature three hundred eight degrees Kelvin and rising.”

  It had happened without warning, the first sign of trouble coming as someone reported a foul odor permeating the air on one level of the station’s civilian residential district. Environmental sensors designed to detect such anomalies had not caught the problem, at least not until the strange pollutant began to spread throughout the section. The quick actions of a station maintenance worker had prevented other decks from becoming contaminated, with the affected area now completely sealed off from the rest of the station. Only then was the cause identified: internal environmental sensors—for reasons as yet unknown—had determined that the normal Class-M atmosphere which supported most humanoid life-forms in that section of the residential zone needed to be replaced with one similar to that found on Class-Y planets.

  “Unless everybody up there has suddenly turned into a Tholian,” Ballard had commented as the situation continued to worsen, “we’re in big trouble.” Anyone trapped in the affected section would be cooked alive, assuming they survived the toxic atmosphere currently replacing the oxygen-nitrogen mix favored by those living on that deck.

  “Sir,” al-Khaled heard Tamishiro call out, the ensign turning from her workstation to regard him and Ballard, “Lieutenant Soral reports they’ve begun cutting through the hatches. The hospital’s been alerted and medical teams are on standby.”

  Even as he listened to the report, al-Khaled’s attention was drawn to one of the monitors dominating the young woman’s station. It displayed an image of at least a dozen men and women grouped near a hatch that remained stubbornly locked. Even though the picture was somewhat obscured by the gray haze that had begun to permeate the air in that section, he still could see some of the people pounding on the door with their fists. Audio pickups transmitted the sounds of flesh beating against metal, as well as the calls for help as the victims shouted at the engineers they doubtless could hear working just on the other side of the barrier.

  “Even with cutting lasers,” Farber said from where he stood to Ballard’s right, “it’ll take too much time, Lieutenant.” Looking to al-Khaled, he added, “We could try an emergency site-to-site transport.”

  His brow furrowing in concern, al-Khaled shook his head. On the face of it, the notion was not altogether outlandish, though there would be no room for error, and the operation would require the transporter system to be properly calibrated to exacting specifications. He doubted that the station’s transporters had been so balanced, not if the condition of many other onboard systems was any indication.

  As if confirming his suspicions, Ballard said, “On any other day, Lieutenant, I’d jump on that suggestion in a heartbeat, but given everything we’ve dealt with to this point, I’m not ready to trust the transporters.”

  “We’re running out of time for being cautious,” al-Khaled pressed, feeling his jaw tightening as he remembered he was addressing the individual in charge of engineering duties aboard the space station. Given the sheer magnitude of the responsibilities with which Ballard had been shouldered while trying to get Starbase 47 to full operational capability on what could only have been a tremendously accelerated schedule, it was doubtful the man was accustomed to people coming into his realm and telling him what to do.

  His frustration mounting, al-Khaled looked back to the one viewer, which with cold dispassion displayed the alarming image of those still trapped in the affected section. The haze lingering about the corridor was denser now, and the engineer could see at least six people lying on the floor, having already succumbed to the toxic atmosphere from which they could not escape. Others were holding towels or pieces of clothing over their faces in feeble attempts to filter out the poisonous gases collecting around them. There was no mistaking the victims’ labored attempts to draw increasingly tortured breaths, and al-Khaled felt his own respiration increasing and his pulse quickening as the stress of the situation continued to weigh on him.

  Find the answer!

  The demand echoing in his mind, al-Khaled forced his gaze from the scene and returned his attention to the monitors of the adjacent workstation, all of which were collaborating to give him the current status of the station’s recalcitrant environmental control systems. There had to be something here they were overlooking, he decided, something that could be reconfigured, rewired, or simply hijacked long enough to help them: an idea outside the box, beyond the boundaries of normal problem resolution, outlandish in theory and perhaps even reckless in practice.

  Where is it?

  Then, as if heeding his silent pleas, the jumble of information cascading past his eyes seemed to ebb and clear, just enough for him to see…

  “Purge the atmosphere!”

  The words all but exploded from al-Khaled’s lips as he moved toward one of the workstations, and both Ballard and Farber turned to regard him with matching expressions of unfettered disbelief.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Ballard asked, reaching up to swipe at a lock of sweat-dampened blond hair that had fallen forward into his eyes. “We’re trying to save these people, not kill them!”

  Ignoring him, al-Khaled tapped a sequence of colored buttons on the control console before pointing to one of the station’s display monitors. “Part of the fire suppression system allows for the emergency venting of the atmosphere from targeted areas anywhere aboard the station in extreme situations.” It’s so simple, he realized, mentally kicking himself. How did I miss it before?

  “That takes care of getting rid of bad air,” Farber said, frowning. “But it doesn’t get those people out of there.”

  Al-Khaled waved a hand as if to fan away the lieutenant’s doubts. “The computer’s been kicking us in the teeth
, reminding us of how it’s on top of the environmental control systems, right?” He pointed to one row of status gauges. “The internal sensors are still online in that section, so the computer knows there are living humanoids there. If we vent the atmosphere from that section, the computer should interpret that as a hull breach or other failure and automatically initiate emergency protocols.”

  “That means sealing the section,” Ballard added, “which the computer already did, and restoring internal atmospheric conditions to their designated norms.” His scowl deepening, the engineer shook his head. “That’s assuming the system is working correctly.”

  Fingers already moving across the control console, al-Khaled paused only long enough to wipe sweat from his forehead. “We’re out of options. I’m initiating the venting now.” Even as he spoke the words, he knew the quite understandable reaction they would provoke.

  “Now hang on, Lieutenant,” Ballard said, stepping forward. “What if this doesn’t work?”

  Pausing for only a moment, al-Khaled turned until he locked eyes with his fellow engineer. “You know what it means, but they’re dead anyway if we don’t try,” he said before returning to the console.

  Ballard looked away long enough to regard the scene playing out on the display monitor. Returning his gaze to al-Khaled, he swallowed nervously before slowly shaking his head. “Damn it, Lieutenant,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “I hope you’re right about this.”

  His hand slamming down on the control that would initiate the emergency venting procedure, al-Khaled hoped he was right, as well.

  Chapter

  2

  “Your man got lucky.”

  There was no mistaking the disapproving tone in Commodore Diego Reyes’s voice. Fortunately for Captain Daniel Okagawa, he was long past the point in his Starfleet career where the stern words of a superior officer alone could intimidate him. He also had, long ago, overcome the inclination to erupt in hearty laughter when confronted by someone unfamiliar with the capabilities of the men and women attached to the Corps of Engineers—particularly those assigned to his crew.