Cathedral by Michael Mangels (ebook reader color screen txt) 📕

“Nothing yet, sir. I—”

A strident klaxon interrupted her, in concert with the urgent flashing of an alarm indicator on her comm panel.

Merimark’s smile was triumphant. “Confirming receipt of four tight-beam subspace blips, Captain.” The bridge was suddenly awash in the sound of applause, and T’rb gave out an enthusiastic war whoop.

They’re aboard the cathedral. Vaughn slumped backward in his chair, just for a moment. A tremendous weight had just fallen from his shoulders, though he knew that the mission was still far from complete.

“All right, people,” Vaughn said as order quickly restored itself. “We still have the problem of recovering the away team once they signal that they’re ready to leave.”

If they can signal when they need an evac. And a great deal else can still go wrong between now and then.

“Mr. T’rb,” Vaughn said, leaning forward and facing the science station. “Have the Nyazen blockade ships detected the away team’s signals?”

After glancing quickly at the science panel, T’rb shook his head. “No, sir. Given the subspace vibrations of these Oort cloud bodies, it should have been pretty hard to distinguish them from the galactic subspace background noise—unless you happen to be listening for them, the way we were. It’s highly unlikely that anybody else would even recognize them for what they were.”

“It’s also highly unlikely that three Starfleet officers would be yanked toward umpty-million parallel dimensions by an ancient alien construct,” Vaughn said. Sometimes these brilliant science-specialist types needed to be reminded of the dangers of overconfidence.

“Aye, Captain,” T’rb said, sounding chastened.

Addressing the entire bridge crew, Vaughn said, “Maintain yellow alert, but keep our shields down for the moment. Watch those Nyazen ships for any hostile moves. If they so much as dump their waste overboard, I want to know about it.” He punched a button on the arm of his chair. “Vaughn to transporter bay one.”

“Bowers here, Captain.”

“Maintain a constant transporter lock on the away team.”

“Not a problem, sir, unless we have to change our position in a hurry. But we can’t maintain the lock if we’re forced to move out of transporter range of the first relay unit.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Vaughn out.”

Merimark spoke up in alarmed tones. “Four of the Nyazen blockade ships have broken away from the main group, Captain. The Nyazen flagship is leading them. They’re approaching us at high impulse speeds, close to warp one. They’ll be on top of us in thirty seconds. And they’re powering up their compression disruptors.”

“Our shields can probably handle a simultaneous barrage from four of them, Captain,” Tenmei said. “For a while, at least. But extensive combat maneuvering might break the transporter lock.”

“The flagship is hailing us on subspace bands,” Merimark said.

“On screen,” Vaughn said.

The starscape fluttered for a fraction of a second, to be replaced almost instantly by a view of the bridge of the Nyazen flagship. It was a collection of blocky shapes whose functions were obscure. In the foreground stood—or perhaps sat—a blotchy, off-white figure, visible only from the shoulders up. An inarticulate bellow issued from the creature’s oval mouth, and its whiplike limbs twirled in apparent outrage.

“Firing of weapons at the cathedral/anathema is not acceptable practice,” shouted the Nyazen commander, its voice rendered into incongruously mellow, bell-like sounds by the universal translator. “Withdraw from this system presently, or face decompression/discorporation.”

So they did detect the transporter beam, Vaughn thought, wondering if they possessed transporter technology themselves. Judging from their instant assumption of an attack, he concluded that they probably did not. But he also knew that he was in no position to tell the Nyazen the whole truth—not unless he wanted to provoke an angry reprisal by beings determined to protect their sacred object from outsiders.

Vaughn raised his hands in what he hoped his counterpart would see as a gesture of peace. “I assure you, we fired no weapons at the cathedral.”

“Lies/prevarications,” the alien said. “Energy beams directed into cathedral/anathema originated on your vessel. Withdraw!” The creature’s image vanished.

“The Nyazen commander has closed the channel,” Merimark said. “And they’re opening fire!”

“Red alert! Evasive maneuvers!” Eight decades of training and experience immediately shifted Vaughn from peacemaker to warrior.

Tenmei hastily tapped commands into her board, and the bridge shook fairly hard a moment later. Warning klaxons blared.

“Two direct hits on our forward shields,” Merimark said. “But they’re holding. Return fire?”

“Not yet. Mr. Bowers, how’s the transporter lock?”

Bowers’s voice came through the intercom, an agitated edge underlying it. “We’re doing our best to maintain it, Captain. But we won’t be able to keep it up much longer unless things settle down in a hurry.”

“Understood.”

“More of the Nyazen vessels are heading our way, Captain,” Merimark said.

The bridge rocked again, more roughly this time; the viewer flared with a painful brightness, a half second ahead of the automatic light filters. “At least five direct hits, fore and amidships,” Merimark said, one hand hovering over the weapons controls as she struggled to evade further hostile fire. “Shields down to eighty-two percent. Return fire?”

“No,” Vaughn said. “Just stay ahead of them.”

A deep rumbling sound briefly drowned out everything else, until Vaughn heard Merimark’s shout rise above it. “Aft shields are down! Ablative shielding’s taking some damage as well.”

The tumult and noise faded somewhat, though Tenmei still worked frantically to evade the hostile fleet, obviously paying particular attention to safeguarding the newly vulnerable stern section. The lights failed, replaced seconds later with red-tinted emergency illumination. An overhead conduit ruptured in response to another salvo, and ozone-tinged vapors filled the bridge. Vaughn coughed, trying to focus past his discomfort.

The comm system resounded again with Bowers’s voice. This time, he sounded distraught. “Captain, we’ve lost the transporter lock. There’s no way we can get the away team back at the moment.”

“Sir, if we don’t return fire, the away team won’t have a ship to come back to,” Tenmei said, her words pitched low, evidently solely for Vaughn’s consumption.

His daughter’s comment annoyed him, but he couldn’t deny that she was right. With no way to recover the