Star Trek: Orders of Magnitude

CHAPTER FIVE

"We don't have time for this!" Riker muttered, and no one could dispute the point.

With Data's help, they had a fighting chance to get the ship's systems back online before the Enterprise began a fatal and irretrievable dive into Saturn's atmosphere.

Unfortunately, "with Data's help" was the key phrase.

"Send for Counselor Troi," Picard snapped to the nearest runnner, before turning his attention back to the android. His impulse was to grab Data's shoulders and shake him, to try to penetrate his hysteria. But the phaser beam enveloping Data made that impossible without enduring a mild stun that Picard could not afford.

"Is he malfunctioning?" Picard asked.

"Negative, sir," Barclay said, peering at his tricorder. "All my readings indicate this is working just the way it should. It's something else."

Picard rarely raised his voice, which made the tactic all the more effective when he chose to employ it.

"Commander Data!" the captain shouted. "I need you!"

Data seemed to hear him. He silenced himself and straightened slightly.

"Sir," he said. "I apologize. I... I am very troubled."

"Mr. Data, we are in grave peril. I need you in your professional capacity. Are you able to fulfill your duty?"

"I believe so, sir," Data said quietly.

"May I suggest you turn off your emotion chip for the remainder of the crisis?" Picard said.

Data looked forlorn in the eerie light cast by the phaser beam.

"Sir, my emotion chip has been deactivated since I regained consciousness."

The bridge crew exchanged concerned looks.

"Reg, I thought you said he was working properly," LaForge complained.

"I, uh, he is! I mean, according to my readings, anyway," Barclay said. "I can't... I mean..."

"Mr. Barclay is correct," Data said. "I have run a complete self-diagnostic. All my systems are functioning properly except for a minor imbalance caused by the fact that a phaser beam is being directed at me." He looked puzzled at that momentarily, but his trust in his crewmates sufficed to defer an explanation until later. "Nevertheless, I am experiencing emotions even though my emotion chip is not active. While I was deactivated, sir, I experienced..."

Picard shot a glance at Riker, who was carefully keeping the phaser directed at Data; he saw his own concerns reflected in his executive officer's face. The captain turned back to Data and motioned for him to be silent.

"Mr. Data, we are on a deadline here. The inconsistency in your system may be related to what is happening to the Enterprise, but unless it leads us directly to a solution, I am afraid I am going to have to ask you to put your personal anguish aside until the ship is out of danger."

"Yes sir," Data said solemnly.

"Mr. LaForge, quickly brief Mr. Data on our situation and your analysis of its cause. I want a solution to our power crisis, and I need it now."

LaForge began talking rapidly; Riker passed off the phaser to the nearest runner and drew off to the side with Picard.

"Can we rely on him in this state?" Riker asked.

"I don't see that we have a choice," Picard replied gravely. "Once the ship's power has been restored, we can turn our attention to whatever is causing his pain. There's no one on this ship who can think faster or better."

"Emotions can cloud thoughts," Riker said.

"Even clouded, Mr. Data's thoughts have value," Picard said firmly.

Troi floated up through the emergency accessway behind them. Even in the dim light, they could see the sharp lines of a frown.

"Counselor, I want you to stick with the engineering team," Picard said. "Mr. Data is experiencing a bit of an anomaly with his emotion chip and..."

"Captain," she interrupted him. "I can sense Data's emotions very clearly. In fact, his are the only emotions I can sense at all."

"I thought your injury was interfering with your empathic powers," Riker said.

"I thought so too," Troi replied. "But I am getting a very clear read on Commander Data. Normally, his emotion chip produces some level of sensation that I can perceive with my empathic ability. But this is different somehow. Louder, perhaps. More organic. I'm not certain."

"Captain, it seems to me that if the difference in Data is that palpable to the counselor, then it may well be connected to whatever is affecting the ship. Especially since she can't sense any of us."

"Indeed," Picard said. "Counselor, stick with them. Tell LaForge and Data about your perceptions. It may help them formulate a working theory."

"Yes, sir," she said.

"And keep an eye on Data. He was out of control with grief when we activated him. He must stay focused on the job."

* * *

In sickbay, Beverly Crusher took a moment away from her charges to gaze out the forward windows. The terminator line had grown visibly since Picard and the others had left for the bridge. Saturn itself seemed to loom large as well.

When she pressed against the cold glass, she thought she could detect a faint vibration, the earliest shreds of atmosphere abrading the ship's skin once again.

When she moved away from the window, she could see her breath condensing in the air. She summoned her orderlies.

"Let's start giving out the pain-killers from the medkits," she said in a low tone. "One way or another, this is going to be over soon. They might as well be comfortable."

* * *

"We've got a plan, sir!" LaForge said.

Data's voice was steady but somber as he explained the team's conclusions.

"I have reviewed Mr. Barclay's findings, and I concur with his conclusions. The Uncertainty Principle seems to have been suspended on board the Enterprise. We have tabled the discussion of probable causes in favor of formulating a plan to restore ship's power."

"A wise choice, Mr. Data," Picard said.

"Thank you, sir. I believe we can restore power to the ship with the tools we have at hand. We will begin by selectively restoring key systems needed to stabilize our orbit by using the ship's transporters.

"When the transporter dematerializes an object, it breaks the matter down into energy which is specifically ordered into a pattern by the ship's computer. The pattern is a blueprint of how the object should be rematerialized.

"But the Uncertainty Principle makes it impossible for that blueprint to include an accurate record of the quantum states of an object prior to transport. Therefore the transporter uses a Heisenberg compensator, a sophisticated randomizing filter that calculates an exact quantum state for purposes of transport but restores the object to quantum uncertainty in the nanoseconds following rematerialization.

"With Commanders LaForge and Barclay, I have devised a plan. Using two of the phasers we have, I will restore the quantum matrix in one of the transporter rooms. The remaining phaser will power the transporter itself.

"Using the transporter, I will be able restore power and functionality to some of the ship's anyon emitters. Using the anyon emitters, we should be able to selectively restore uncertainty in ship's systems, taking care to preserve antimatter containment and other critical systems."

"Anyon emitters?" Riker said. "Can someone explain this in English?"

"I'll give it a shot, Commander, but it's deep water here," LaForge said. "The anyon emitters are part of the engineering array. Anyons are exotic quantum particles that necessarily exist under conditions of uncertainty. If we can get the anyon emitters working, we can flood the ship with them, one section at a time. They should restore uncertainty in those areas. At least, that's our best guess.

"We'll restore the emitters first, using the transporter. Data will get a transporter lock on the section of the ship containing the emitter array. He won't actually transport it. He'll get a lock, energize the beam, then cancel transport -- which will make the rematerialization routine kick in. That should restore uncertainty in the area. Barclay and I will be there to fire up the emitters and stabilize the situation in that section.

"Then we'll use the anyon emitters to power up a second transporter room and use that transporter to power up more emitters. We'll be able to keep leapfrogging systems in the same way until we have emergency power throughout the ship. Once we have emergency power everywhere, we can work on getting the mains back online."

"Is this safe?" Riker asked skeptically.

"Anyon particles are harmless," LaForge said. "But there is one complication."

"Naturally," Picard said dryly. "What would that be?"

"You may recall that several years ago, a malfunctioning Romulan cloaking device caused me to go out of phase with reality. Data used the anyon emitters to bring me back. Anyon particle fields cause phased matter to come back into its normal state. That means the field will cancel out the one-degree phase shifting that is currently shielding your heart."

"But if uncertainty has been restored, it won't matter, will it?" Riker asked.

"It might not be instantaneous. From the anyon level it could take anything from a nanosecond to several seconds or even minutes before things start functioning normally. We don't know. No one's ever done anything remotely like this before. The only thing we know for certain is that the phase-shifting will cancel out immediately."

"It's a chance we'll have to take," Picard said. "If we don't restore power right away, my heart will be only one of a thousand that beat no more."

It was a sign of the extremity of their situation that no one tried to argue the point.

* * *

Troi couldn't remember ever seeing Data look so haggard. Actually, she couldn't remember ever seeing him look haggard at all. As an android, Data wasn't typically prone to such human weaknesses as exhaustion and stress.

It didn't help that the room was suffused with the weird green light of the phaser beam; it made him look vaguely nauseous, another oddity. Troi had to linger just outside the door. If she went into the room, she would suffer a mild stun.

Data had predicted that it would take him 14.7 minutes to reprogram the transporter in order to accomplish the task at hand -- restoring uncertainty to the Enterprise's forward anyon emitter array. He made no objection when she offered to accompany him.

"What are you doing now, Data?" she asked.

He had removed a section of his scalp, revealing the circuitry beneath.

"I am connecting myself directly to the transporter console," he said. "The transporter's pattern buffers are not capable of locking onto such a large area. My positronic brain will provide the extra processing power required for the task."

"You seem to have calmed down since we were on the bridge," Troi observed.

"I am operating within normal parameters," Data said. "The intensity of my emotional reactions have faded, and I believe they have now completely ceased. I am at a loss to explain the experience, however. Also..."

Data looked over at Troi, even as his fingers manipulated the console at lightning speed.

"Counselor, when I was deactivated on the bridge, something unusual occurred. I had what humans call a near-death experience."

"You what?" Troi had hoped Data would discuss what had led to his outburst, but this was far beyond anything she expected. "But Data, you've been deactivated before. Has this ever happened?"

"I have been deactivated many times prior to this occasion," Data said, "and in far worse states of disrepair than the latest circumstance. No explanation for the discrepancy immediately presents itself, although it would be logical to infer that the experience is somehow connected to the unknown phenomenon currently affecting the ship."

"What did it feel like?" Troi asked.

Data considered that for a moment, as he unlatched a panel and crouched to work on the circuitry inside the transporter console.

"It is difficult to articulate. Although I seemed to have a body, I was not able to access my systems. It was as if I existed independent of my programming. It was most unsettling and yet exhilarating."

He looked up at her again.

"Counselor, do I have a soul?" he asked.

"That's a question you will have to answer for yourself, Data," she replied carefully. "It is a question that all sentient beings ask themselves. Do you think you have a soul?"

"Until today, I had never contemplated the possibility, except as metaphor," Data admitted. "I have many questions."

"I've wondered if you had a soul," Troi said. "I think we've all wondered. I guess the romantic in me wants to believe that you do."

"I must confess that I am at something of a loss to understand the metaphysics of my situation," Data said. "I have reviewed several hundred religions documented by Federation science and I can find no belief system which provides a directly analogous explanation for my situation."

"You must be used to it by now," Troi said gently. "Being unique. And remember, most major religions are developed by civilizations during their pre-technological stages."

"Perhaps," Data replied. "But there is precedent for religion as it pertains to artificial life forms. For instance, Judaism, one of Earth's most ancient religions, describes a creature known as a golem. According to Jewish mysticism and legend, a golem is a creature made from clay and then animated by means of magic.

"The golem is an interesting example for a number of reasons. It is the direct precursor of the concept of the android in human thought and highly influential in early speculation about artificial life, such as the story of the Frankenstein monster.

"However, the literature is ambiguous on the subject of whether a golem has a soul. According to strict specifications, it did not. It was imprinted with the mental energy of its creator, which provided it with a mind of sorts. But in some variations of the legend, the golem takes on a mind of its own and goes mad, resulting in its destruction by its creator."

Troi frowned, not liking the direction this was going.

"I don't see how this golem is relevant to you," she said. "You aren't mad, and you aren't a magical creature. You are an order of being that the people of ancient Earth could hardly have conceived of."

Data arched an eyebrow, an unnerving mannerism in the absence of his scalp.

"Clarke's Law is required reading at Starfleet Academy: 'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.' Perhaps any sufficiently advanced magic is indistinguishable from technology."

The counselor rubbed her temples. "I'm not sure if it's the sound of the phaser beam, or the direction of this conversation, but my head is beginning to hurt."

"Then it is fortunate that both are about to conclude," Data said. "I am ready to begin the procedure."

* * *

Geordi LaForge sat in the dark, waiting. It had been a long while since he had spent this much time in the dark.

Over the course of many years, Geordi had found some measure of peace with his disability. His ocular implants were more reliable and more comfortable than his VISOR had been. But he felt useless in this time of crisis without his sight. What good was a blind engineer to a disabled ship? He couldn't even operate a tricorder.

It went to the very heart of his deep-seated insecurity. In his world, so many ailments and injuries could be healed in seconds. Geordi was literally one in a billion -- victim of a birth defect so rare and so severe that it couldn't simply be cured. A technological solution was the only option. And right now, technology was the problem.

But maybe not for much longer. The ethereal music of the transporter beam swelled in his ears. Showtime at last! Geordi took a deep breath and waited for the lights to come on.

* * *

Reginald Barclay sat in the dark, waiting. Reg hated the dark. He was convinced that there were things lurking, watching, silently scheming. The Starfleet exobiology catalog listed 13 sentient species and 14,000 animals with perfect night vision, mostly predators. Granted, it was unlikely that any of these creatures were on the Enterprise, but it would be just his luck. The Barclay luck.

Reg knew that people laughed at him, that they thought he was neurotic. Well, wouldn't be? Trouble stuck to him like antiprotons on a quasar. His tour on the Enterprise had been one disaster after another -- the holodeck incident, the macro-virus in the transporter, the Cytherian probe... and that was just on the Enterprise-D! His luck had actually gotten worse during his one year tour aboard the Enterprise-E. There was the unfortunate tryst with the wife of the Klingon ambassador, the fractal RNA pattern iteration, the subspace brain stem bubble, the sad case of mistaken identity with the Orion pirates, the Denebian slime devil incident, the Trojan Horta fiasco...

The list went on and on. His luck had improved marginally when he had transferred back to the Sol system, but even then there had been the Dabo girl and the Ferengis, not to mention the disastrous blind date set up by Commander Riker...

The Barclay luck. His father had it, and his father's father before him. Reg had inherited the family legacy in spades. When the lights came on and the console in front of him burst into noisy pinging life, Reg was genuinely surprised that the room was empty. No Regulan blood worms, no rabid targ, no enraged mugato...

Maybe the Barclay luck was due for a change.

* * *

Beverly Crusher gazed out the windows of Ten-Forward, waiting for darkness to fall. The Enterprise was moments away from crossing the terminator line and plunging into Saturn’s night.

The doctor thought she could hear noises throughout the ship, but the breathing and soft moans of the wounded obscured any detail. She knew the crisis had come to a head. Either the ship’s power would be restored within moments, or they were all going to die.

As the Enterprise’s doctor, she was too often sidelined while the action was taking place. Her place was in sickbay, not on the bridge, where the decisions were being made. Sometimes she resented her role; other times, she embraced it. But she had learned to deal with it. At least this time she had a view.

Her crewmates made it easy, in their own way. Beverly wasn’t really afraid that they were going to die. She had absolute confidence in the skills of every person on the ship: Geordi, Data, even Reg Barclay. Each brilliant in his own way, each a master of the systems and technology that kept the starship alive. If the three of them working together couldn’t solve this problem, then the odds were it simply couldn’t be solved.

At times like this, she missed Wesley, on levels both practical and emotional. Like Geordi, her son was a brilliant scientist and one of those rare creative thinkers who flourished under pressure. Wesley Crusher was at his best in precisely this kind of situation.

Perhaps even more, though, she just wanted to know he was near. When peril crowded close around the Enterprise, her thoughts always went to her son. Had she told him everything she should? Did he know how much she loved him? He must, of course, but the question nagged at her, accentuated by his long absence.

Wesley had left Starfleet to embark on a voyage of personal discovery, on a level she had to admit lay somewhat beyond her complete comprehension. A strange alien being known as The Traveler had been his gateway to a new universe of possibilities.

The Traveler operated on a different plane from normal human experience. He was capable of fantastic, almost godlike acts, of converting abstract thought or mathematical formulae into astounding physical realities. After several encounters with the Enterprise crew and with Wesley, The Traveler had finally come to her son privately. The alien saw a great, almost mystical potential in Wesley. He offered to teach Wesley to reach for those heights, and Wesley had agreed, of course. He was his mother's son.

Since then, she heard from Wesley only infrequently. When he did visit, he had a tendency to arrive unannounced and without visible means of transport, and he stayed only a short while. Beverly missed him, but at the same time, she felt great joy on his behalf. He was boldly going where no one had gone before, to places and states that no human had even imagined. She could not begrudge him that exploration. She only hoped The Traveler's considerable powers would keep her son safe on his journey.

She shook herself out of her reverie, needing to stay focused in the moment. As the engineers had set to work on their plan to revive the ship, Crusher started her own preparations. She’d sent runners to sickbay to retrieve every piece of equipment that wasn’t strapped down. She would have preferred to move the patients there, but until the lights were on, it was pointless. And some of the patients were in critical need of care before they could safely be moved. For now, Ten-Forward would serve.

Outside the window, the terminator line loomed. The view before her was a sea of darkness so absolute that even the dim glinting stars were not reflected within. The occasional vibrations of the hull told her that the Enterprise was close to a fatal encounter with that sea, close to falling into the atmosphere and coming apart into that darkness.

The Enterprise crossed the terminator. A soft wall of total darkness slowly rolled over the room, covering them all in shadow.

And then the lights came on.

“Move it, people,” she cried out, but her medical staff was already moving, scarcely pausing to appreciate their new lease on life before seizing their equipment and setting to work on the dozens of injured crew members in the room.

They had the situation well in hand, which left Beverly free to attend to the one patient she was truly worried for: Jean-Luc Picard.

* * *

Deanna Troi pulled back into the hallway and waited. Data was now fully occupied with coordinating the resurrection of the ship; conversation was impossible. Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to come to terms with the dark.

Even in blackest night, Deanna was unaccustomed to feeling lost. Her empathic power served as a homing beacon of sorts; she could always orient herself psychically against the presence of other minds.

But her powers were useless due to some strange aspect of their current situation. Data and Barclay had agreed that whatever was dampening the ship’s power was probably also affecting her empathy.

Science had yet to discover the exact workings of telepathy and other mind powers, but it was assumed they functioned at a quantum level. The uncertainty effect that had the Enterprise in its grip was probably also the cause of her problem. And the solution to the power crisis would most likely restore her abilities.

Troi had lost her powers before; she didn’t like it. She felt painfully disabled without them, as if she had been reduced to only a shadow of herself.

She closed her eyes and tried once more to reach out and feel the minds of her shipmates. Nothing.

Except it wasn’t exactly nothing. She sensed something, something vaguely familiar, but elusive as well. Concentrating harder, she forced her sixth sense to reach out, grasping at whatever was out there. It was flickering somehow, sketchy, like an outline or a shape that fell just short of cohesion. It felt like life, but it took no familiar form. Spinning? Whirling? Like an engine running, or a computer processing.... What was this?

She could almost touch it.

It was in agony. More than a mind, practically a force of nature, and it was trapped, paralyzed in nightmare fashion, wailing its pain on every plane and through every avenue available to it. She felt it in her bones, in her blood, in her very cells.

Then she realized what she sensed, or rather, whom.

Then the lights came on; the artificial gravity had resumed. The failsafe systems came one at one-twentieth of one Earth gee, allowing loose people and objects to gently descend to the floor, rather than falling like rocks.

As she floated downward, the minds of the Enterprise’s 1,000 crew members came roaring back to life in her mind, her full empathy returning. Troi erected a mental shield and struggled to get her bearings. She had to get to the bridge. She had to warn them.

* * *

Jean-Luc Picard disliked zero-gravity situations. It was difficult to maintain dignity when one was floating a comical angles, halfway between the floor and the ceiling.

It was also difficult to maintain dignity when one’s heart was a liability. Picard had always been self-conscious about his artificial heart. For a long time, he hadn’t even let his crew know about it. Past troubles had forced him to come clean, but although it was now common knowledge, he still preferred a measure of privacy in his vulnerability.

Picard detested revealing vulnerability to his shipmates. Even after all these years, it galled him to let them see him that way. It was foolish, he knew. When he first adopted the attitude, it was a way of distancing himself from his crew, of maintaining a certain detachment, a captain’s veneer. He had preferred to manage his people from a serene height.

But that was a long, long time ago. His officers had grown to be his friends, closer and dearer friends than he could ever have hoped for in his life. He trusted each of them implicitly, and they returned that trust with a powerful loyalty. He had nothing to hide.

And yet... And yet, when it came down to it, Picard wanted to bear this burden alone, to endure this little death safe from the encompassing love that his friends and shipmates would unflinchingly provide. He had faith that he would survive this moment. But there was something unseemly about sitting in a room full of people, under watchful eyes as his heart simply stopped functioning, even if only for a short while.

Beverly had been livid when he informed her of his decision. But she conceded that there was little she would be able to do for him until the power was restored. The problem with an artificial heart was that it couldn’t be massaged with CPR. The best the doctor could offer was a quick response when the power returned, to repair any damage that might be caused by the momentary blackout.

So he sat -- floated -- in the impromptu conference room, adjacent to Ten-Forward and composed himself. Waiting.

Because of his prosthetic, Picard was more sensitive to the sensation of his heart beating than most humans. He wanted to say that it felt different, somehow, but he had to admit that he had never really paid attention to what his heartbeat felt like before the operation. It was embarrassing, really, to consider that he had grown to young adulthood without ever being aware of so basic a function, without ever reaching inside himself and just experiencing the sensation of his heart beating.

And then, one day, it was suddenly too late. A knife plunged into his chest, he lost consciousness, and when he awoke...

He had been changed. And he would never know how it felt to have a living heart beating inside his chest.

He was certain that it had changed him. Surely, it must? Jean-Luc Picard had been a hot-headed youth. Something was responsible for transforming him into an adult, into a man renowned as much for his aloof detachment as for his ability to remain calm in a crisis. Was that it? Had something vital come out of him when a web of metal and plastics replaced his living heart?

His reflections were interrupted. The moment had arrived.

It was hard to resist the feeling of crushing panic that came when he felt the first beat skip.

He knew it would be a matter of seconds most likely, minutes at worst. He knew the odds favored his survival. Beverly Crusher was a skilled healer with all the techniques the 24th century had to offer. He would most certainly live.

But the panic remained. His heart was not beating. Like a fist clenched in his chest, damming the precious blood that now lay stagnant in his veins. He felt lightheaded. The air in the room had been stale to start with; this seizure left the cells of his brain depleted, hungry, dying...

Picard felt his face pressed against the carpet, but he fought to remain conscious. He would not be felled. He would live, damn it!

Carpet. His face was pressed against the carpet. Gravity had been restored.

He heaved himself up into a sitting position, as a clap of thunder exploded in his chest. Blood. His blood, flowing once more. The strength returned to his limbs, the fog cleared from his mind, amid the rising lights, the gravity, the sound of air rushing through the vents, warmth flowing into the room, dozens of computers springing to life.

* * *

Data had a lot on his mind, which was no small statement.

His positronic brain was simultaneously processing buffers for six transporter units now, calculating areas that could optimally be restored via transporter as opposed to the anyon arrays.

Specifically, this included the ship’s main power, its antimatter reactors and storage units, which demanded especially delicate handling. Data had to activate the containment systems before restoring uncertainty to the antimatter, or else the volatile fuel would instantly explode on contact with the matter surrounding it. It was a complicated procedure and required absolute precision.

While he processed these tasks, he constructed a computer model of the ship so that he could monitor the repair teams’ progress. As the sensors came online, he enhanced the model with information about the environment around the ship.

It was as if he were watching the Enterprise from the outside. The starship was drifting close to the atmosphere now, in total darkness as it entered Saturn’s deep night. Slowly and steadily, lights twinkled to life along the hull, first shining through windows and around hatches, then the running lights.

Tentatively, the impulse engines throbbed to life and the warp nacelles began to glow in shades of blue and red. The structural integrity field flickered ethereally around the struts, stabilizing the ship under the immense pressures of its decaying orbit. All over the Enterprise, lights and energy played, as system after system was restored. Plasma vented like sparkling fountains from various spots, as technicians rushed to adjust for the effects of the blackout.

The great ship awakened, first in fits and starts, then in exponentially greater increments, until at last, it reclaimed its former power and glory.

Like some strange bejeweled city hurtling through the skies, the Enterprise skimmed the top layer of Saturn’s viscous atmosphere, roiling trails of vapor in its wake that glistened briefly in the glow of the starship’s running lights before evaporating into darkness behind.

Despite the complexity of recent events, Data reactivated his emotion chip as he watched. The unique perspective demanded an observer who could fully appreciate its startling beauty.

* * *

Normally, Will Riker loved the darkness. Preferably planetside, in the great outdoors. A moonlit night, a cool breeze, the sound of running water, a warm body beside him...

This was different.

The air was still and increasingly stale. A numbing cold had set in, and the scent of tension and sweat pervaded the bridge. The blackness was absolute; they had been forced to stop using candles as the oxygen in the air dwindled to dangerously low levels. The only sounds were the unnerving metallic creaks of the ship groaning under the stress of its decaying orbit.

Riker clamped his hands on the armrests of the command chair impatiently. He was more than ready to have the ship back online. The performance of the Enterprise crew under these conditions had been remarkable, but he was ready to grab on to some small piece of normalcy. Riker had been born to command -- and he was accustomed to its privileges. He wanted to know that when he gave an order, the might of the Enterprise itself was part of his arsenal.

He was finished groping around blindly. The time for cursing the darkness was over.

As if in response to his thought, the pull of gravity suddenly reasserted itself on his frame. He landed firmly in the chair as the ship’s gravity field reactivated, and the bridge was suddenly flooded with the amber glow of emergency lights and the welcome sound of dozens of consoles booting up. A dozen floating communicator badges clattered to the deck. He picked one up and affixed it to his uniform.

A deafening cheer went up around the bridge, and Riker couldn’t help but join in. It might not befit the dignity of his rank, but it felt damn good. He tapped his combadge and heard a reassuring chirp.

"Damage report, all decks" he called out in a booming baritone. The bridge crew quickly took up their posts and began working, focused. Riker sat in the command chair and activated the status display in the armrest, when the bridge was filled with a deafening howl, more powerful and complex than anything a human larynx could produce.

"It never ends!" Riker snapped, jumping to his feet. "Security team to the bridge!"

It began as a translucent shape twisting in the air. A perturbation of light, like a heat mirage, but bulging into three dimensions, a head, arms, torso, then legs. The shape was humanoid. Slowly, it became more solid. Color seemed to bleed into the outline, fluidly filling the contours with opacity.

The being was tall. Its skin, as it materialized, took on a grayish tint. It was bald, and its forehead was marked by distinctive bone ridges over its eye sockets. Riker suddenly realized he had seen this figure before. The alien was naturally gaunt and pale, but those qualities had been exaggerated by his clear and urgent distress.

He fell to his hands and knees, head bowed, as the cascading effect of his materialization gave way to firm stability.

"Hold your fire," Riker called to the security team emerging from the turbolift. "It's a friend."

Riker rapidly crossed the bridge to check on the status of their unexpected guest, the being known to the Enterprise crew only as The Traveler. For a brief moment, Riker felt a surge of hope. The odds of understanding and correcting their current dilemma had just increased substantially.

"Traveler?" he said, kneeling at the alien's side. "Do you need assistance? Why have you come? Do you have any information about what's going on?"

The alien's head snapped up at the sound of Will's voice. His eyes burned -- literally. Ablaze with a corona of fire, his gaze radiated an equal measure of rage, or perhaps madness.

"Make it stop!" he snarled, his voice a twisted parody of its once-gentle lilt. "The universe is too great a price! You cannot see what I see! All the realities," he panted, "All the realities are in peril. You must stop what you are doing here! I cannot bear it! Can you not see? Everything that is! Everything that was or will be!"

He staggered to his feet and lurched toward Riker, steadying himself by gripping the first officer's shoulders. His fingers seemed to melt into Riker's tunic.

Riker cried out in sharp pain as a optical starburst effect spattered and swiftly spread from the points of contact along his neck and across his chest, the atoms of his body annihilating themselves in a flare of heat and a bright, beautiful spray of fractured rainbow splinters.