Star Trek: Mariner
Episode 004:
Mathematical Singularity
by Bodie A. Ashton
(uss_mariner_01@enterprise.startrek.org)

Episode 004: Mathematical Singularity

PROLOGUE

South Ronaldsay, Orkney Islands
British Isles
Tuesday 15 April 2027

A patch of land in a collection of patches of land, all in the frigid sea.

South Ronaldsay had lasted as such for millennia. It had survived geological upheavals, several conquests and several major wars. It was, however, just that: an insignificant little blob of rock and hillock between the main body of the Orkney Islands and the Scottish mainland. A submerged cavern was the extent of the import of the islet, it having attracted a couple of tourists per annum since the 1970s. But even that was no longer, the Scottish parliament having deemed the cave unsafe a few years previously. The cavern, however, was now more full of action than when the tourists had been visiting.

* * * * *

Tamsyn McBride punched yet another algorithmic sequence into the computer, but threw her clipboard down in disgust when it announced in bold red type that she had failed again. She had been working on the processor for several hours, but every time she entered a new sequence, it would disapprove.

"Bloody Swedish typewriter", she exclaimed in exasperation. As if on cue, a man appeared by her side.

"What's wrong, Tam?"

For the umpteenth time in her employment on the island, McBride thought in awe about her boss. He was a genius, and he always had the tendency to disarm the most unpleasant situations.

"The computer won't accept the new programming", she explained, her voice calmer as a result of his presence. He thought for a moment.

"Go straight to the hardware, then", he said after a few seconds. "Determine what's not accepting your calculations and bypass it."

She looked into the face of her employer. His cropped orange-brown hair and very short, neat goatee gave him the countenance of a late teenager, despite the fact that he was approaching his forty-second birthday. He exuded quiet optimism and strength, a quality she had found most appealing when she first met him. She had almost immediately purged those thoughts from her mind when she discovered that his fiancé had been among the dead on 10 August 2024. She had found it morally repugnant that she had considered becoming romantically involved with him, when his bride-to-be had been killed in such a horrific way.

She nodded.

"Of course. I'll get right on it."

* * * * *

The dark hull of the submarine cut through the depths of the North Sea. Jeb Garner was proud of his ship. She had begun as the USS Guadalcanal, one of the final of the Ohio-class nuclear ballistic missile submarines built by the United States of America in the late Twentieth Century. However, having been illegally bought and retrofitted, she was now the New Justice. Instead of hailing from San Diego, as she would have under the United States government, she now bobbed up here and there, as the roving headquarters of the New Justice Action Group. Garner, one of NJAG's chief operatives, believed in what he was doing: creating a new dawn for US imperial interests. To him, it did not matter that the US government, still embroiled in its War on Terrorism, actively disapproved of the group. After all, he pointed out several times, the government had also banned the sale of alcohol once. Clearly, the interests of the country were not properly handled by the powers-that-be. Hence the New Justice Action Group, a band of ultra-nationalists with enough capital and firepower to make a difference.

Garner read the printout again.

"Are you sure that this is the site of the British experiments?"

The second-in-command nodded.

"It's just a mound of dirt; the perfect place to hide a missile installation", he confirmed.

Garner stroked his chin.

"Arm the missiles", he said at last, "and prepare to come to launch depth."

Tamsyn McBride climbed out of the hatch and looked to the gantry. Her boss was taking down some final notes.

"I'm finished here", she called. "Providing the Swedes are as good as they say, and your gear works to specs, this baby will fly like a kestrel."

Patrick Coleman didn't look up. The Scottish programmer disembarked the vehicle and drew up alongside him.

"Calculating atmospheric variables?" Coleman turned to face her. He smiled.

"No, actually. I was considering what to call her. 'X-100' sounds boring and clichéd."

McBride made an earnest face.

"How about the Coleman Comet?", she suggested with the most serious tone she could muster.

Coleman laughed quietly.

"I was considering something more like Patfute Four."

"Patfute?"

Coleman shook his head in a suppressed giggle.

"Never mind. I'll stick with X-100."

He changed the subject.

"I'd better get suited up, if we're going to launch on time."

* * * * *

The conning tower of the New Justice surfaced through the icy water like the dorsal fin of a shark, circling to make the kill. Almost immediately, two hatches behind the sail popped open. On the open bridge, Garner watched as the twin Cerberus nuclear missiles rose to their launch positions. He then turned his binoculars to the horizon, where a small mass of green, grey and brown had just appeared. Suddenly, the twilight horizon was lit, and Garner witnessed with confusion as his binoculars magnified the island enough to show the topsoil of the island erupt into the atmosphere, followed by the long conical shape of a large rocket being launched into the night. He quickly surmised that this was the instrument of Britain's long-awaited retaliation against the NJAG, in retribution for the 2024 attack on London. Half expecting the projectile to begin a parabolic course towards his ship, he picked up the intercom and keyed the microphone.

"Missile Room, fire tubes one and two. Helm, once they're away, conduct a crash dive!"

Then he left the open bridge for the sanctuary of the main, cigar-shaped hull, just as the two atomic weapons leapt from their launchers and set a course for South Ronaldsay.

* * * * *

The British technicians at Ronaldsay had a right to be proud of themselves. They were certain that they had just ushered in a new era, a neo-Renaissance. But they never got to bask in their glory. Just minutes after the launch of X-100, two Cerberus rockets ploughed into the ground and detonated. The twin atomic explosions tore the secret laboratory apart in an instant, incinerating all in their paths. Then the power of the shocks opened up a long-forgotten chasm in the seabed. In hours, the once nondescript islet was no more, as the sea swallowed her. South Ronaldsay had survived conquests, ice ages and two world wars, but she was the first casualty in the opening shots of the Third World War.

Garner's fatalist beliefs did not eventuate. The New Justice sped away from the scene of the attack with the stealth that such terrorist organizations are famous for. In his ship's diary, he noted: Target launched a missile, but this apparently misfired and was soon lost to sight. Thus was recorded the maiden flight of the X-100. She was forgotten to history, but the circumstances surrounding her loss gave rise to the third-greatest mystery in Earth's history, save the disappearance of Amelia Earhart and the 'loss' of the Terra Nova colony several decades later. Aside from those, this question remained on the lips of investigators and scholars for centuries.

What was the fate of Earth's greatest mathematician, Patrick Coleman?

CHAPTER ONE

Captain's Log, Stardate 54975.1
This past week, Mariner has remained over Earth in order to give extended shore leave to the crew. This was authorised on the order of Admiral Owen Paris, and I know that this was based on the ulterior motive of my assisting him in getting to know his son again, as well as meeting his daughter- in-law. Lieutenant Davies reports that the engineers at McKinlay, assisted by Ensign Garrick, did a fine job of repairing the ship. We are once again ready to deploy in defence and furtherance of the United Federation of Planets.

The ready room door chimed in the usual four tones.

"Enter", Anthony said.

The door swished open, revealing Alexandra Lane, Operations Officer of USS Mariner.

"Ah, Ensign", he greeted her jovially. "How did the ship-wide diagnostics go?"

"They were exemplary, sir", she replied. "All systems are functioning to full capacity."

"Excellent", Anthony decreed, then switched the subject. "Would you care for something to drink, Alex?"

Lane nodded.

"A Tarkalean Jaroc Cola, if that's alright, sir."

Anthony turned to the replicator in the ready room.

"Computer, one Tarkalean Jaroc Cola, and one iced French Vanilla Cappuccino."

The replicator hummed and glowed, and in an instant, the two beverages appeared side by side. Anthony passed the cola to his operations officer and bade her to sit. He pointed at her drink.

"I could never grow to like those things", he said. "They're too sour for me."

Lane took a sip.

"They're an acquired taste, sir", she affirmed, "rather like blood wine or vanilla-flavoured Italian coffee."

Anthony laughed, then tasted his own drink, which he found to be chilled to perfection. Again, he sought to change the topic of conversation.

"Tell me, Alex. Have you been spending much time with Ensign Brenkar?"

She nodded while her glass was raised to her lips. Anthony continued.

"What's the impression you get of him?"

"He's nervous to a fault", she divulged, though Anthony could have told himself that. "He's very conscientious, and scientifically he's very innovative, but he lacks self-confidence."

"You should have been a counsellor."

"What, I'm not good enough for Ops, am I?", she needled him with a cheeky grin and a half-laugh.

"Do you know if he's involved in any post-Academy study?"

This forced a raised eyebrow from the young native of New Berlin. "May I ask why, sir?"

Anthony spun the monitor of his desk-bound personal computer to face Lane.

"Ever since the return of Voyager, he's spent a lot of time on a direct uplink with the best museums and historical institutions on Earth and Luna. Have a look at a random sample of his reading material."

Lane selected a resource from Luna, accessed four days previously. She rubbed her chin in concentration, but finally leaned back into her chair.

"It's a duty entry for the old New Israel Jewish state on Luna", she said. "Post-Red Sabbath, when the majority of the world's Jewish population fled the persecution of terrorists to the United States-built settlement on the Moon."

"What kind of duty entry?"

"It's a record of radar reports and the subsequent scrambling of a shuttle to intercept an unidentified object during April 2027."

"The shuttle Moshe Dayan, launched from New Israel to investigate a missile of some kind that was launched from Earth", Anthony recalled from what he remembered of early Third World War history. "The Dayan reported that the rocket blasted away at incredible speed and that they would give chase until they had to return."

"A week later, after continued pursuit, New Israel lost telemetry with the Dayan", finished Lane. She looked up.

"I don't see the significance, sir."

"Nor do I", admitted Anthony. "Other documents that Ensign Brenkar has downloaded include biographical detail on Patrick Coleman, interpretations of the Mathematical Singularity doctrine, Earth maps dating back to the 1990s, terrorist synopses."

"In other words, nothing really linked."

"Exactly", Anthony puzzled. "I wonder what's going on in that El Aurian brain of his."

* * * * *

Tolian Brenkar sat glued to the computer screen. The latest download, from the Museum of Generational History in Beijing, contained geological accounts of the atomic attacks on Northern Scotland in 2027, and he pored over the pages of information with efficiency. Brenkar was beginning to grin. He could feel that his hypothesis was correct. The evidence supported his reasoning, and yet there was the gnawing lack of incontrovertible proof. The chime of the door broke the spell.

"Come in", he said, turning to face the door. It opened, and Simon Anthony glided quietly inside.

Brenkar leapt from his seat to stand to attention, knocking a glass of Bromian Sea Pineapple Juice on the floor as he did so. Anthony cringed as the pale blue contents of the glass diffused throughout the soft burgundy carpet.

"As you were, Mr Brekar."

Brenkar snatched a small towel from the bench next to his computer table and threw it over the damp patch on the floor.

"I'm sorry about the mess, sir", he spluttered.

"That's okay", Anthony lied through lightly-clenched teeth. Brenkar didn't notice. Anthony pointed at the computer screen. "What are you looking at?"

"Oh, just some stuff about the Third World War on Earth", the El Aurian replied waveringly. Anthony moved forward to look closely at the screen.

"Very specific", he commented. "The terrorist missiles that hit the lower Orkneys. Always a ponderous point, why the NJAG targeted an unpopulated region of the British Isles."

Brenkar nodded unconvincingly.

"Yes, sir."

"However", the captain continued, "I doubt you're pondering the reason for incomprehensible atomic attacks."

He turned away from the screen.

"Damn it, Ensign, don't insult my intelligence with your silence!"

The unexpected rebuke from his commanding officer threw Brenkar into a spin. His hands began shaking ever so slightly, but enough for Anthony to notice. Realising that he had again spoken too harshly to the anxious young officer, Anthony softened his tone.

"I happen to know a little about history, Ensign", he murmured. "Perhaps, if you're working on something specific, I can help."

"That's just it, sir", Brenkar interrupted, forgetting his timidity. "I am looking for specific conclusions, but to do that, I have to wade through generality."

So saying, Brenkar tapped at the computer, revealing a dossier. Anthony read the title of the page.

Patrick Coleman
Human Mathematician & Warp Theorist, 21 Century

"You see, sir, I am convinced that Zephram Cochrane was not the first human to travel faster than the speed of light. I believe that that honour falls to Patrick Coleman."

* * * * *

Anthony stood for a moment, stunned. Gradually, he cleared his head.

"You're suggesting revisionist history, Ensign", he said at last. "Be careful."

Brenkar cocked his head.

"Revisionism", explained the captain, "is usually very unpopular. When Nikita Khrushchev introduced revisionist history in 1955 regarding the Stalinist period of the Soviet Union, it caused mass riots throughout Eastern Europe. When Terrence Northrop theorised that the 2008 assassination of the Chinese First Commissar was an American intelligence operation, he was shot. When the Andorian historian Ghuram declared that the Vulcan-Andorian war was the result of Andorian arrogance rather than Vulcan scheming, his home was destroyed by a bomb.

"All I'm saying is, be careful where your research takes you."

Brenkar, however, was enthused.

"But sir, the truth must be told, or else humanity will live in ignorance."

Anthony sighed in a resigned fashion.

"Okay", he said at last. "Show me what you've got."

Brenkar tapped in a command on the console. Then he turned to his commanding officer.

"Well, sir, it all begins on a Tuesday in April 2027.

"On this day, a terrorist submarine launched two nuclear missiles at an insignificant, unpopulated island known as South Ronaldsay. Why they did this has been a mystery for the past three and a half centuries.

"In the log of the submarine, which was discovered and almost discarded at the end of the Third World War, the captain reports that a rocket was launched from Ronaldsay, but it continued skyward. This got me thinking. The island had no buildings, yet it was able to launch a missile of some sort. The rocket was later sighted for a moment by a tracking station in Australia, but they lost contact.

"Later that day, the Moon colony of New Israel detected a large object, launched from Earth, proceeding on a course past Luna. They launched a shuttle, the Moshe Dayan, to intercept, but the shuttle and the New Israel scopes soon reported that the object accelerated away at fantastic speed. The Dayan gave chase, but it was officially reported as lost eight days later."

"I can see where you're going", Anthony said cautiously, "but it's all circumstantial so far."

"All of my evidence is", conceded the El Aurian. "At least, so far."

He continued on his narrative.

"About three years before this, the British government and most of London was destroyed when fanatics detonated nuclear weapons in the capital. After this, the United British War Commission was set up in Edinburgh. At the end of this year, Patrick Coleman approached the UBWC, asking for funding for a project he was planning. He said that it could feasibly assist in tracking down the criminals who had so wounded the UK.

"According to UBWC financial records, the request was approved, and Coleman began work at an undisclosed location."

"You think the project was a warp ship", Anthony suggested.

"I'm positive", Brenkar replied with conviction. "He kept in constant touch with friends until the week beginning April 11, 2027-the week in which Ronaldsay launched a space vehicle whose speed was far faster than that of the most modern shuttles of the time."

Anthony remained silent for several moments. Revisionism. The word was the bane of historians the universe over. He recalled an occasion back in his days at Henry Archer-Gymnasium, when one of the students, asserting that the Eugenics War was instead the continuation of socialist-capitalist tensions, rather than the struggle for power by genetic supermen, he was called a "Khrushchev" by Herr Sonderheim, the Head of History. One of the most important passages learned and recited by Anthony was: Revisionism is the act of the subjective, in an irrational attempt to suit history to their own requirements; thus truth is the first casualty. Revisionist history is usually fatally flawed.

Nonetheless, Brenkar had linked several seemingly irrelevant documents to form a cohesive and clear argument. Anthony had to admit, he was intrigued, if not convinced. What was more, as he had once argued himself in an Academy paper, history and truth are not necessarily intertwined. The old maxim held some truth; history is written by the victors.

Besides, he thought with a rebellious twinkle in his eye, where's the fun in accepting doctrine?

"I've got a couple of weeks still owing", Anthony interjected quietly. "Perhaps I can pull a few strings, see what else I can get you."

CHAPTER TWO

The Federation Forum of Modern History is situated in St. Petersburg, Russia, a site it has occupied for the past hundred years. Housing the largest hall of records in the entire alliance, the Forum was the organization through which all historians within the Federation who wished to be published were obliged to register their names. At the end of the Mayweather Wing of the complex stands a massive mahogany-lined hall, replete with leather-covered periwinkle blue bench-type seats. When meeting in the Past Presidium, as it was known, the Forum's thirty thousand members could be comfortably seated with room to spare, although such a large gathering was rare. As a published historian, Simon Anthony was naturally a member of the Forum, though he had only ever attended one General Meeting of the Forum. He had, however, often walked the straight path which divided the eastern and western sides of the Presidium. It was here that he had earned his commission as an historian. It was here that he debated his views regarding European policy of the inter-war years of the 1920s and 1930s.

It was here that he stood now, before an old tutor.

Professor Jevran was almost as Anthony remembered him. True, the Havenian's hair was a little more orange than the last time Anthony saw him but, the captain mused, none of us are getting any younger. The lecturer's face was ruddy as before, and Mariner's commander had to stop himself from feeling the need to sit down and listen to another enthralling talk regarding the first fifty years of Earth's Twentieth Century. Jevran held a PADD in one hand, but looked up when he heard the soft footsteps of his former pupil approaching him.

"Doctor Anthony", he greeted with genuine enthusiasm, using the term 'doctor' rather than 'captain', in recognition of his doctorate in history. Jevran did not care that Anthony also had a master's degree in temporal physics; as with many specialists, nothing exists but their field of endeavour.

"Professor", Anthony acknowledged. "It's been a while."

"Four years, three months, eight days."

Anthony's eyes bulged, but Jevran let out a rumbling belly laugh.

"I'm an historian, remember? Dates are my business." Anthony considered this, then almost whimsically made a pronouncement.

"April the fifteenth, 2027."

Jevran rubbed his coarse stubble.

"The beginning of the Third Terran World War", he replied. "The attacks on Great Britain-surely you didn't need me to confirm that!"

Anthony grinned toothily. Had he not known that date, he would never have presumed to pose as an historian.

"My science officer believes that something more.substantial occurred on that day."

"What could be more substantial than the near-annihilation of the human species?", chuckled Jevran, but more warily than before. The subtle change was not lost on Anthony. He knew that he was now treading on thin ice.

"How about the first warp flight by a human?"

Jevran flushed red.

"You have your dates thoroughly confused, Doctor. Zephram Cochrane wasn't even born, let alone old enough to consider."

"I don't mean Cochrane", Anthony interrupted. "I mean Patrick Coleman."

Jevran considered this for a moment. He rubbed his tufts of orange hair in thought. Finally, he addressed his former student.

"I know Coleman was a genius of grand proportions, Doctor", he pronounced, "but your science officer is overstating the man's abilities if he believes that he was the first to fly faster than the speed of light."

"I've looked over the work myself, and I can't fault it", Anthony persisted. "It's circumstantial, but it indicates that Coleman was more than likely working on a warp ship, one that he launched on April 15 2027."

Jevran shook his head, an expression of concern spreading across his face.

"Be careful", he said. "You're on dangerous ground, Simon."

Anthony shot an accusatory look at his mentor.

"What do you mean?"

"Work like this could upset the Forum enough to revoke your commission within the council."

Anthony could hear the unspoken ending to that sentence. And I would support them, not you. "You can't simply dismiss this out of hand", he argued. "There is strong ground-work here. The arguments are all rational. The evidence supports.."

"What evidence?", Jevran growled with hostility. "A report of a missile launch by a known terrorist? A possible sensor glitch on outdated lunar radar? The loss of a shuttle? Don't tell me you think that Coleman would destroy an innocent Israeli shuttle."

Try as he might, Anthony could not argue with the logic behind the Havenian's rebuke. Nonetheless, having gone over Brenkar's case again and again, he was willing to back the El Aurian to the hilt.

"I'm continuing my research", he informed the professor, his voice now as frigid as the polar caps. "I will get to the bottom of this."

"There is nothing to get to the bottom of", the Havenian responded. "If you leave now, believing all that you have said, then command surely has dulled your historical senses."

Anthony would endure no more. He turned to leave, storming out as the professor called after him. The final words rang in his ears as he exited the Past Presidium.

"Drop it, or you will be remembered as a fool!"

* * * * *

The lines and lines of characters would mean nothing to all but the most accomplished computer experts. The writing of cartographical programs was by no means an easy feat, as Tolian Brenkar well knew, but he was the Chief Science Officer. Such programming was a walk in the park for one so qualified. He ignored the option of computer-operator vocal interaction with the program for reasons of expediency, but he kept the ability to vocally order the computer to operate a function of the program. He was overjoyed when the first line of coherent text appeared on the large screen in the Mariner's Stellar Cartography department.

>>Please input type of vehicle<<, the message read.

"Computer, subject vehicle is an OVM-221NI-class twenty-first Century Terran shuttle. Specific vessel has serial number OV4578/R, the Moshe Dayan of the lunar colony of New Israel. Include all known modifications to vehicle as stipulated in the file Brenkar Beta-Six, and incorporate them into your final calculations."

There was a pause. Then another white message flashed on screen.

>>Vehicle type and modification commands accepted. Accessing Brenkar B6<<
>>Please input amount of time travelled<<

"Amount of time travelled is given as approximately one hundred and eighty-eight hours, assumed at maximum velocity."

>>Time value accepted<<, the program acknowledged.
>>Please input bearing of subject vehicle<<

"Subject vehicle heading approximately two-oh-seven mark three-one mark one-oh-one."

The computer whirred over this information. Momentarily, it presented a stellar map of the region, with a red shaded arc indicating, with margin of error, the possible final locations of the Moshe Dayan. Brenkar scanned the map, but stopped with a jolt as his eyes came by an anomaly. There it was, three million seven hundred and seventy thousand five hundred and two point six miles from New Israel. It had been so obvious that Brenkar had missed it all along. The Averskod Belt.

CHAPTER THREE

"The Averskod Belt", Anthony mouthed, as if savouring the name of a fine red wine. "Are you certain, Mr Brenkar?"

The El Aurian looked around the ready room, somewhat nervously plucking the answer from the air.

"Well.no, sir. However, I believe it is the most obvious place to begin the search."

Anthony rubbed his chin. The Averskod Belt was something of a mystery to Starfleet, even in this age of advanced starships and computers which could run a million processes every second. To be truthful, no one had ever shown much interest in the small band of fluidic space, despite the fact that it was one of only two known examples of the anomaly in known space. It had first been discovered in 2054 by Doctor Sven Averskod, a Swede and the inventor of the first Terran subspace scanner. The Belt itself was undetectable using refracting telescopes, radio telescopes, infra-red or even the brand-new ultra- sonic telescopes that came into being around the time. The only way Averskod had detected it was because it resonated a small subspace wobble, which showed up as a representation of its real mass on a subspace scanner. It sparked little scientific interest. Early in the history of Starfleet, however, several probes had been launched at the mass. They were mysteriously lost, and Starfleet, having lost four advanced probes and not being that fascinated with the Belt anyway, deemed it off limits for all vessels.

In 2027, however, subspace scanners did not exist. The Belt was undetectable to the eye or any conventional scanners, and that meant that a shuttle or any other vessel without the Averskod technology could have simply wandered into it without realising the danger.

Anthony's curiosity was perked.

"Very well", he said after a moment's pause. "I'll take this under consideration. Thank you, Ensign."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir", Brenkar replied in a stutter, retreating from the room hastily.

Anthony smiled, and keyed his desktop computer.

"Computer, open a channel to the office of Admiral Geoffrey Courtenay, authorisation Anthony Theta- Pi."

The computer beeped, and almost instantaneously a young woman appeared on screen.

"Admiral Courtenay's office", she announced.

"This is Captain Anthony of the Mariner", Anthony greeted. "May I speak with the admiral?"

The girl smiled benevolently.

"I'm sorry, Captain, but the admiral left Earth yesterday morning. He took command of the USS Tikriti, and departed to join an exercise of the Eleventh Fleet."

Anthony furrowed his brow and frowned.

"But Mariner is the flagship of the Eleventh Fleet. We should also have deployed. Why was I not informed?"

"Admiral Courtenay did not feel it necessary to involve you after you've had such a busy time recently", the ensign said, but corrected herself when Anthony made to reply. "I'm sorry, sir. Those were the admiral's exact words, not mine."

Anthony looked away from the screen for a moment.

"Where is the Eleventh, Ensign?"

She seemed surprised by this question, but did not hesitate to answer.

"They have deployed to Sector 1132 to conduct war games, sir."

Anthony nodded. There was a nagging pang of doubt surfacing in his gut, but he couldn't pinpoint why. Finally, he spoke.

"Thank you, Ensign."

He closed the channel.

* * * * *

He emerged from his ready room a few moments later. Tasek had the Bridge while Commander Ramelow was off-duty. He stood when Anthony entered.

"To your stations, everyone. We're going for a spin."

He spoke into the communications grid.

"Commander Ramelow and Ensign Brenkar to the Bridge. Lieutenant Davies, how are your impulse engines."

"Ready as we'll ever be", came the reply through the comm. Anthony grinned slightly, and turned to the helm.

"Lon, set a course for the Averskod Belt and engage at full impulse."

Lieutenant Lon Tanier acknowledged the order, his hands blazing over his console. In less than a second, the Mariner accelerated out of Earth orbit. At that exact moment, the two officers recalled to the Bridge burst through the turbolift door. Anthony turned to his science officer.

"Mr Brenkar, analyse any information we have regarding the Averskod Belt. Before we get there, I want you to devise a way for us to penetrate the fluidic space in a way that the old probes did not."

CHAPTER FOUR

The Averskod Belt did indeed show up on the main viewscreen, but that was only as a result of the computer enhancements. For wont of a better description, Anthony could think of nothing else that it looked like but a blob of dark purple goo.

"Sir", Brenkar called from the Science II station. "I don't believe we can take the ship inside that thing."

Anthony turned to the young ensign, an eyebrow raised in question.

"Our inertial mass is too great, even with a subspace bubble or full shields", Brenkar explained.

"Sensors are having trouble getting through the Belt. It's not so much fluid as gel. However, I am able to detect some strong gravitational eddies in there. If the Mariner tried to force her way in there, we would force a lot of that gel into the eddies. It would destabilise the belt and destroy anything that may be inside."

Anthony grimaced. He wasn't ready to give up. It was Tanier who spoke next.

"A shuttle could do it, sir", he affirmed. "If I took one of our Type 11 shuttlecraft and generated a small subspace bubble, I reckon I could get through."

Anthony gazed at Brenkar, who nodded encouragingly.

"Very well", he said at last. "Lon, Tolian, you two get down to the shuttlebay.

"Anthony to Davies", he then said into the comm. grid.

"Davies", came the immediate reply.

"Henry, could you go with Tanier and Brenkar in one of the shuttles to investigate the Averskod Belt?"

"Will do."

* * * * *

The shuttlecraft Stephenson streaked out of Mariner's Main Shuttlebay, and immediately the sleek little craft flipped over and overflew the saucer section. In the cockpit, Lon Tanier expertly piloted the vessel.

"We'll be entering the Belt in twenty seconds", he reported to the two officers seated behind them.

Henry Davies, the South African chief engineer, leaned over and keyed a sequence into the computer console. It beeped after a couple of seconds.

"The subspace field is online", Davies reported. Roughly ten seconds later, the bow deflector field entered the gel. An instant later, the anomaly closed over the ship.

* * * * *

The Stephenson cut through the liquid like a hot knife through butter, occasionally angling away from a gravitational eddy. Brenkar watched the scanners intently. He nearly jumped with joy when something appeared on the screen.

"There's an object about four miles off the port bow, vector three-two-five."

"I'm on it", Tanier called as he banked the shuttle in a light turn. It was just moments before a small ship came into view dead ahead. Brenkar deflated slightly.

"The Moshe Dayan", he muttered, catching sight of the Star of David emblem on the stubby wings and fuselage. "I was hoping for it to look...by the Blessed Ones, I don't know what the ship would even look like!"

"She's got multiple hull breaches", Davies reported. The port side of the flight deck is open to space and.hang on a second."

Davies leaned away from his engineering computer to look at the proximity scanners.

"Another object just entered scanning range, about seven point five miles away to our zero-six-zero mark zero-four. It's bigger than this old baby." He pointed a thumb out the window at the damaged New Israel vehicle.

"Right, let's give it a look", Tanier decided, throwing the shuttle in a turn towards the vector given him by the engineer.

* * * * *

The object in question was a sleek, silver ship with a pointed red nose cone. Protruding from the rear, above the multiple ion ports, were two cylindrical warp nacelles. There were four characters painted on the vertical tail.

X-100.

Brenkar grinned broadly.

"Gentlemen", he said with no false joy, "I think we just found our lost mathematician's vessel."

Tanier was about to congratulate the junior officer, when suddenly his console chirped. He looked up to his colleagues in astonishment.

"I'm detecting one human biosign aboard."

CHAPTER FIVE

Brenkar stared at Tanier in shock. The lieutenant might well have suddenly grown a second head and it wouldn't have elicited such a reaction of abject confusion. The ensign stammered for a few moments, but in the meantime Davies and Tanier took more scans of the ship.

"The life-form appears to be in some sort of stasis", Davies reported sceptically after consulting the computer. "If that is Patrick Coleman, then he constructed a personal stasis unit that was about a century ahead of it's time. The degree of technical precision and complexity I'm detecting is unfeasible for an early-Twenty-First Century ship."

The Betazoid helmsman turned to the engineer and made a wry smile.

"It's not that hard to believe", he countered. "The spatial dynamics of that ship are very advanced. I'm not detecting any hull breaches; it must really have been built to last.

"According to my scans, the layout of the warp reactor is also highly technical. If he were really pushing it, I think that ship could almost make Warp 1.85. Even if it couldn't, that ship still seems more sophisticated than the Phoenix, and that took to space almost forty years later."

At the mention of Cochrane's famed warp ship, Brenkar extracted himself from the quagmire of bemusement that he had found himself in.

"We're going to have to go aboard", he stated bluntly. Davies inhaled sharply.

"I know the scans don't indicate any hull breaches, but if that thing did launch three hundred and fifty years ago, it may not be in such a spaceworthy condition."

"I don't want to fly the damn thing", the El Aurian argued, his voice reaching a crescendo. "Besides, we've got EV suits with us. If the environment inside is hostile, we'll be protected from the elements."

Davies still looked doubtful. He looked to Lon Tanier. The conn officer licked his lips and cleared his throat.

"I'm forced to agree with Ensign Brenkar", he said at last. "As the senior officer on this shuttle, I am authorising you two to board that vessel. If that is Coleman in stasis over there, we should make every effort to retrieve him."

He had barely said this, when the shuttle violently rocked from side to side, slewing to starboard. The lights dimmed, flashed, then returned to normal illumination as Tanier retook the helm. He cursed under his breath.

"We drifted into an eddy", he said aloud to his companions. "The subspace field is beginning to degrade. If it collapses, our being here could destabilise the Belt!"

"How long do we have?", inquired the Transvaal engineer. Tanier read off his console.

"About ten minutes."

"Let's go then!"

Tanier spun around to see Brenkar, already suiting up in the EV suits at the rear of the Type 11. He was about to protest, but checked himself. He turned to Lieutenant Davies.

"Henry, go with him. You've got four minutes. After that, I'm beaming you back."

Davies nodded contemplatively, then alighted from his seat and hurriedly slipped into the bulky Starfleet-issue protective garment. In less than a minute, both he and Brenkar were ready.

"Energising", declared Tanier, as he transported them both from the Stephenson to the X-100. Both officers were reduced to a shimmering pale blue glow, then they were gone.

* * * * *

Lieutenant Henry Davies craned his neck in awe. The computer banks along the wall appeared primitive to what he was used to, but the large domed structure in the middle of the room intrigued him. It took a couple of moments for him to realise that he was looking at a matter-energy conversion chamber. Glancing around, he caught sight of a plastic-laminated board stuck to the console of the dome. He approached it, and when it came into his reading range, he absorbed the words.

Reminder:
Deuratonium-Hydroxide mix tolerance ratios between 1:30 and 1:70. Degradation of Deuratonium occurs at ratios higher than one part per twenty and lower than one part per eighty.
Good luck PC.
TMcB.

PC, thought Davies. Patrick Coleman.

He stood in wonder, having read the short advisory-cum-good luck note. From his extensive knowledge of chemistry, deuratonium had only been isolated as a substance in the early Twenty- Second Century, far less used as a viable energy source. The lack of dilithium had been overcome ingeniously, he thought. His throat caught, as it dawned on him for the first time that he may be looking at Earth's first ever warp core.

"Lieutenant!"

The excitable voice of Tolian Brenkar blared through his helmet like a thunderclap. It jolted the South African from his nostalgic reverie.

"What is it, Ensign?"

He looked around to see where his fellow officer was standing. Surprisingly, he was not in the room.

To his right was an open plexiglass sliding door. From the keypad on the jamb, Davies deduced that it had once opened electronically, but now, without power, it had quite obviously been wrenched open by the Mariner officer.

"I've found Coleman", the El Aurian replied over the comm. Davies removed his tricorder and scanned for their life-forms. He found them in an adjacent area. Squeezing through the ajar panel, he found himself in what appeared to be the control centre of the ship. In a corner at the far side, Brenkar stood, his tricorder scanning a large upright cylinder. Though it also appeared to be constructed from plexiglass, Davies could not see through it, for the interior was frosted over. It also seemed that it had not been an original component of the vessel. In contrast to the neat and orderly surroundings, where no conduit, pipe, wire or circuit seemed out of place, the tube had large vacuum tubes scattered across the aluminium alloy deck, leading from the very top surface of the object to various junction boxes, conduits and other assorted attachments throughout the Bridge. Making his way as quickly as possible in the cumbersome EV suits to the tube, Davies found himself staring into a serene, relatively young intelligent face, distorted by frozen condensation. The eyes were closed, but the figure had closely- cropped orange-brown hair and a trimmed goatee on his chin, the colour matching the covering of the crown of his head. He was dressed in a pale blue jumpsuit. Davies could vaguely make out a patch on the man's right breast. It was bedecked in the ancient Union Jack flag, and around it was a legend.

Per ardua ad astra.

In adversity, to the stars. Davies knew from his cursory knowledge of military history that Per ardua ad astra had been the motto of the British Royal Air Force, but in this context the Latin script held a whole new meaning. In one short moment he wished he had never doubted the young scientist who now stood next to him in an identical protective suit to his. Then the spell was broken.

"Two minutes, gentlemen", Lon Tanier called over the comm. At once Davies realised that neither of them knew what to do with the body of the man assumed to be Patrick Coleman in stasis. He raised his hand to rub his chin, but realising that his action was blocked by the transparent aluminium shield of the EV helmet, he instead tapped the plexiglass stasis pod in thought. The solution came to him out of the blue. He called over his comm.

"Davies to Tanier. Would you prepare one of the emergency thermal generators from the survival gear?

We're going to need it in a few moments."

"Understood", came the reply, and Davies could imagine the lithe Betazoid scurrying back to the rear cabin to power up one of the power units. Standard issue on the newest Federation shuttled, the thermal generators used all thermal conditions-heat, cold, humidity and so on-to produce a modest amount of power. Having been on the preliminary design team for the power supply, Davies felt sure that one could handle the simple functions of a stasis pod, if not the more complex body maintenance duties.

It was several moments before Tanier responded.

"Okay, I'm ready up here, but you've only got thirty seconds before we have to get back to the ship."

Davies wasted no time. He hurriedly plucked a pattern enhancer from one of the work pockets of the suit. Then, adhering it to the skin of the pod, he activated it. He ordered Brenkar, who had up till then been staring in wrapt fascination at the frozen individual, to find a way to disconnect the pipes, hoses and leads running from the pod. By the time the nervous El Aurian had completed this task, Tanier was on the comm. again.

"Our time's up, gentlemen. I'm going to beam you back-"

"Hold that order for one more second!", Davies curtly shouted. He ducked out of the Bridge, back into the room which housed the warp core. He returned in less than ten seconds, and he hurriedly ran over the cylinder with his tricorder. Satisfied that everything was in working order, he contacted the Stephenson again.

"Away Team to Stephenson. Lock on to us and the pattern enhancer and energise."

Less than a second later, he found his vision blurring into a swirl of colours. The next thing he knew, he was standing on the flight deck of the shuttlecraft. Without delay he set to work connecting the stasis tube to the thermal generator.

Lon Tanier did not even ask about the bulky transparent cylinder which appeared in the shuttle's cabin.

He didn't have time. The moment he had confirmed a successful transport, he set the Stephenson in a sweeping bank over the aft section of the X-100, and set a course for the point they had previously used to enter the Averskod Belt.

* * * * *

Captain Simon Anthony paced his Bridge. It had been over an hour since the Stephenson departed the recently rebuilt Main Shuttlebay, and due to the nature of the Belt, Mariner had been unable to keep communications contact with the little ship. To make matters worse, the Sovereign-class starship's ultra-sophisticated sensor grid had had it's impressive range curtailed by the anomalous fluidic space off their bows. Ensign Lane had lost sight of the Away Team over forty-five minutes ago.

Anthony turned to ops for the umpteenth time in the past half hour.

"Anything yet?"

"No, sir", Alexandra Lane replied, shaking her head, and in doing so allowing her shoulder-length auburn hair to fall ever so slightly out of place. Anthony was about to make some wry comment, when the operations officer spoke up again.

"Correction, sir", she called. "I am detecting the Stephenson's subspace bubble. It's approaching the insertion point at full impulse."

She halted for a moment, squinted at her display, then reported the new information she had gleaned from the computer.

"The bubble is deteriorating. It will collapse in approximately one minute and ten seconds."

Jakob Ramelow, sitting in the chair reserved for the Executive Officer, piped up.

"What is their ETA to the edge of the Belt?"

Lane consulted her console.

"More or less the same time, sir."

* * * * *

The shuttle was beginning to vibrate, first gently, but becoming more intense with every second that passed. Tanier knew that this was a sure sign that the subspace field was on the verge of collapse. He was doing everything to get them to the edge of the Belt in enough time; he had even disengaged the impulse manifold safety protocols, which was why they were quickly overheating. In doing so, however, he had created more heat inside the field, which in turn was denaturing the bubble.

Six of one and half a dozen of the other, he thought bitterly. To get out of danger meant going faster, but going faster meant you had less time to get out of the danger before the field finally collapsed.

The young science officer had finally stopped gawking at the massive cylinder, and had instead set to work trying to find any more expedient means of leaving the Belt. So far, however, the prospects were grim.

"Warning: Subspace field integrity at six percent", the computer chimed in on queue, as if to compound Tanier's misery. His answer was the only one he could give. He pushed the impulse engines harder.

* * * * *

The Stephenson's impulse manifolds were glowing a brilliant white as she reached the last stretch of fluidic space. Her lines were however mottled by the grainy static interference of the degrading subspace field. At that moment in time, the field finally collapsed.

But the shuttle did not die.

Like a cannon ball through rice paper, she burst through the last kilometre or gel, erupting out into normal space with a spray of gel droplets. Behind her, the Averskod Belt wobbled in subspace for a moment. Then, it fell into it's own death throes as the fluid drifted into the gravitational disturbances throughout the substance. In a dull flash of indigo, the entire Belt sucked itself into subspace, destroying an object previously blocking passage through this sector of space, and taking with it the Moshe Dayan, a few old Starfleet probes- --and the X-100.

EPILOGUE

The haze of slumber began to clear from his eyes. He shied away from the relatively moderate lighting level as his eyes forced themselves to adjust to a new surrounding. When he finally gained the courage to open his eyelids and crane his neck, he gazed round the room. That was the extent of his knowledge of the place in which he found himself-a room. Whatever it was, he decided, it certainly wasn't on Ronaldsay, unless Tamsyn had had the interior decorator in while he had been on the test flight.

Then it all came back to him: the flight, the sudden collision with whatever it was, the inability to break the ship free, the construction of the stasis pod from scratch.

He cringed. His head felt like it had been carved in twain by a pickaxe. He would need to ask for an aspirin when he eventually met someone in this-room.

He opened his eyes again, and to his supreme surprise and shock his gaze was greeted with the visage of a youthful man. The newcomer wore a long earring from the top to the bottom of his ear, and his nose had several peculiar horizontal slits. He was wearing a grey-topped black jacket, and underneath, he caught sight of an aqua-blue tunic, complete with two gold pips on the neck.

"Welcome", said the stranger simply.

"I.I.uh.", the patient stuttered in reply. He stopped, sucked in a deep breath, then tried again.

"My name is Patrick Coleman. I'm a citizen of the United Kingdom."

"I'm afraid you're not anymore", came a new voice, slightly more gruff but not unpleasant. Coleman looked towards his feet, which were propped up on the bed. The man who had addressed him looked rather more normal than the first one. He too wore the garb of the first man, but this one wore a red shirt underneath. What was more, he had four pips.

Anthony could see that Coleman was having difficulties, so he leapt in to the point immediately.

"Forgive me, Doctor Coleman. My name is Simon Anthony."

"You sound British", came the strained reply. Anthony smiled.

"I was born in what you call the United Kingdom. However, it is no more."

He paused, trying to work out how to continue.

"I know you'll find this difficult to believe and accept, but I swear to you it is the truth.

"This is not 2027. In fact, this isn't even the Twenty-First Century. The year is 2377, and you are on board the Federation starship Mariner."

Coleman frowned, but said nothing. Clearly this was a lot to take in. The captain pulled three PADDs from behind his back and laid them beside the mathematician.

"Here are some preliminary notes regarding the history of Earth after 2027. If you wish to talk, you can ask Doctor Taryll"-he motioned to the man with the slits in his nose-"to get in touch with me. If you need anything, ask the doctor. Later, you will be visited by our ship's counsellor, Counsellor Gregory."

He paused again.

"We're here to help, Doctor Coleman. I know things are quite muddled for you at the moment, but they will become clearer. Trust me."

With a short nod, Captain Anthony turned and exited sickbay.

* * * * *

Captain's Log, Stardate 54976.8
It is now nine days since Doctor Patrick Coleman was brought out of his self-induced stasis, and I am happy to report that he is making exceptional progress. He has even expressed an interest in continuing on Mariner as our 'resident mathematician'. As Admiral Courtenay is still on assignment, I will submit this proposal to Admiral Paris.
Ensign Brenkar is to be commended on his skilful research regarding the fate of Patrick Coleman. This is a significant moment in the history of the Federation. I am not sure, however, what the Forum of Modern History intends to do. I have been told that there will be an urgent special meeting of the Presidium next month. I have received a written appeal from Jevran, asking if we can keep this quiet until then. We shall see what happens.

* * * * *

Anthony sat at his desk in the ready room. He was about to open a channel to the office of Admiral Owen Paris, when the comm. spoke.

"I apologise for interrupting you, sir", the voice of Lieutenant-Commander Tasek said, "but there is a message from Admiral Paris. Should I patch it through?"

Anthony was surprised, but he kept a level tone.

"Very well, Tasek."

The screen blinked, and the emblem of the United Federation of Planets was replaced with the grim face of Admiral Paris.

"Admiral", Anthony greeted. "I was just about to call you."

"Oh?", came the reply from the grizzled old man.

"Yes", continued Anthony, "it seems that Doctor Coleman wishes to stay on board Mariner and earn his keep as a better mathematician than the LCARS system."

"I see no problem with that", Paris shrugged with a semi grin. "Congratulations, Simon. You just headhunted the greatest mathematical mind that Earth has ever seen."

The smile vanished.

"On more pressing matters, however, I would like you to head to Sector1132 to investigate an attack on the Federation weapons laboratory at Perovina III. At present, the damage to their computer core is so comprehensive that we're not sure what really happened, but we're certain that some weaponry was stolen. Without that core, we don't know the inventory. The word around the fleet is that your crew is the best in the business when it comes to investigation."

Anthony felt a chill roll down his spine.

"Sector 1132? Surely, that's where the Eleventh Fleet is conducting war games. Why hasn't Admiral Courtenay been given the job?"

Paris shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Starfleet Command lost contact with the Eleventh Fleet three days ago", he reported. "It was kept quiet because we have a small task force of ships searching for them at this very moment. We didn't want to raise false hopes, nor did we want to sound overly morbid. This is your show, Simon. Run it as you see fit."

With that, the channel was closed.

Anthony sat in silent contemplation for a few moments. He was disturbed when the door chime sounded.

"Enter", he ordered.

Patrick Coleman entered the room.

"Captain, with respect I would like to tell you just how much I appreciate the care you and your crew have shown for me", he said. "The doctor, the counsellor and almost everyone else have been very good to me. It may take a while to get used to Vulcan logic, though." He made a small laugh, which Anthony copied.

"It has been our pleasure, Doctor", he truthfully replied. He stood to shake Coleman's hand. Then he remembered. He opened one of the desk drawers.

"Lieutenant Davies asked me to give you this", he said, handing Coleman a small laminated placard.

Coleman read it.

Reminder:
Deuratonium-Hydroxide mix tolerance ratios between 1:30 and 1:70. Degradation of Deuratonium occurs at ratios higher than one part per twenty and lower than one part per eighty.
Good luck PC.
TMcB

Coleman's eyes misted.

"Please thank Mr Davies for me, sir", he said. "I can't think of a better way to remember Tam by."

He shook his hand again, bid a quick goodbye, then headed out on to the Bridge turbolift, and thus his ultimate destination: his quarters.

Anthony smiled again, but remembering the business at hand he straightened, and marched out to the Bridge.

"Lon, set a course for Perovina III. Maximum warp. Mr Tasek, go to yellow alert."

The Bridge staff did not question. They simply went about their business as efficiently as usual.

Anthony lowered himself into the 'Big Chair'.

"Engage."

The USS Mariner, flagship of the missing Eleventh Fleet, streaked away from the Sol System, on a course for Sector 1132. Like a hawk, Anthony promised, they would discover who had perpetrated the attack on the weapons laboratory, they would stalk their prey, and they would swoop. So flies the bird of Federation justice.

* * * * *

Commander Gamay Kaleen looked on the main viewscreen in puzzlement. Her ship, the antiquated, Constellation-class ship Hubble had been assigned to search for the seven missing ships of the Eleventh Fleet, but she had been given the unenviable task of patrolling the so-called Fel'ra Corridor, a section of space famed for it's lack of any planets, asteroids, moons…anything. She had thus not expected to be the commanding officer of the ship which found the fleet. Looking at the lead Excelsior- class ship, though, she wondered why they had ever been missing in the first place. By all accounts, the ships were in perfect working order.

She turned to her operations officer.

"Hail the Tikriti", she ordered. Instantaneously, the figure of Admiral Geoffrey Courtenay appeared on screen. Now Kaleen guessed something was amiss. The admiral seemed to stare right through her, in a vacant, dreamy gaze that saw everything yet took in nothing.

"Admiral Courtenay", she greeted respectfully. "I am Commander Kaleen, commanding the Hubble.

We were ordered to search for and hopefully find the Eleventh Fleet. Are you in any difficulties?"

Courtenay's gaze hardened. At once, he appeared just as he had for the past few months.

"Oh no. Nothing's wrong at all, Commander."

Kaleen was about to speak, but the admiral cut her off.

"Tell me, Commander.have you ever felt love?"

This question caught Kaleen completely off guard. She struggled to find an appropriate response.

"Love? Well, yes, sir. I'm happily married, with four children, but I don't see why."

Courtenay clicked his tongue.

"It is a pity you will never feel this kind of love."

Humour him, Kaleen thought. He is my superior officer, after all.

"What kind of love is that, Admiral?", she queried.

Just as she finished speaking, the ops officer shouted a warning.

"Commander, the Tikriti is charging weapons!"

Admiral Courtenay's reply to the commander's question broadcast through the Bridge, but none of the Bridge staff had a chance to interpret the words. Synchronised with the end of his answer, three photon torpedoes from the Tikriti's forward torpedo tubes blasted into the superstructure. The crew did not have time to raise shields, so the words that Admiral Courtenay spoke were the last words Commander Gamay Kaleen or her senior officers ever heard, just before the Bridge was struck and obliterated by the torpedoes.

"The love of the Pah-wraith."

TO BE CONTINUED.