The Betazoid’s professional smile faded. “We need to know that the person who emerges from the transporter remains the same person while he’s stationed here.”
Picard held out his right hand.
The Betazoid fastened the monitor around his wrist, then used a welder’s plaser to seal it.
Picard tried to adjust the position of the monitor, twisting it back and forth. Molecularly sealed, it wasn’t coming off, and it felt uncomfortably tight.
“I sense your resistance,” the Betazoid said. He was checking the display on the tricorder he aimed at the monitor. “Understandable. But not, perhaps, the best attitude to have at this time.” His smile was perfunctory, somehow false.
“The monitor’s operational, Captain. If it should ever stop working, or the sensor web reports difficulty in receiving its signal, you’ll hear an announcement. At that time, you will stop whatever you’re doing and remain in place and in view of the nearest visual sensor until a security detail can reach you.”
Picard made a last attempt to penetrate the officiousness of the Betazoid. “Has there been an incident that these procedures protect us against?”
“You’ll be briefed,” the Betazoid said.
The statement was obviously intended as a dismissal.
The pressure door behind Picard slid shut.
“We have other arrivees to process,” the Betazoid said. He gestured down the corridor, past the security team. “You want the blue door. Thank you, Captain.”
Picard made the decision not to protest his treatment. Until he knew what had happened to cause Starfleet to establish this level of security, it was clear that questioning the procedure would be useless.
The blue door was several hundred meters along the curving corridor. Picard passed only two other people on the walk there, both civilians, both wearing medical monitors like his. Neither spoke to him, acknowledged him only with a nod.
A hand-lettered sign had been placed on the blue door. All it said was
BRIEFING.
As Picard looked for a control panel, the door opened to reveal a large balcony of slatted metal looking into a cavern large enough to hold the entire Federation Council chamber. The stale, moist air that rushed out told him why the corridor smelled as it did.
The balcony was bolted to the cavern wall as if it were part of some long-abandoned mining operation. It was thick with worn paint, like the pressure doors in the corridor, and starkly lit by what appeared to be temporary emergency lights clamped to the railing every few meters. They marked the way to a wide staircase, also of slatted metal, leading down to the cavern’s floor, supported by improbably thin posts.
Looking ahead, Picard could see several islands of light in the cavern, created by pole-mounted fixtures. Some areas were stacked with cargo containers. One held a row of portable toilets. Still another appeared to be a field kitchen. Starfleet personnel and civilian workers were busy everywhere, carrying supplies from the containers, assembling portable equipment…. The whole effect was one of hurried preparation, like an army on the run.
The idea of a Starfleet installation having been driven underground, so quickly and so readily, was unsettling.
Picard descended the stairs, grim. One oasis of light contained a black conference table set up on a low platform to provide a level floor. The table was surrounded by enough chairs for about fifty participants, but only twelve people were present, Admiral Janeway among them. Of the other eleven, as Picard came closer, he recognized Fleet Admiral Robur Burnett, currently the number-three officer at Starfleet Command, and two civilian politicians: President Wheeler of Mars, and Jeroba Tak Fong of Alpha Centauri. Councillor Jeroba was New Montana’s representative on the Federation Council and chairman of the Starfleet Oversight Committee.
The others in attendance were a mixture of Fleet personnel and civilians, all human and all unfamiliar to Picard.
They, however, recognized him, and as soon as he stepped from the rough cavern floor onto the platform, everyone turned toward him. As yet, no one addressed him, and Picard followed suit, maintaining silence.
It was Janeway who directed him with a gesture to a chair beside hers. She saw him look at her medical monitor. Each person gathered around the table was wearing one.
Picard decided it was time to speak.
“Are these truly necessary?” he asked as he took his seat beside the admiral.
“Yes,” she answered quietly, but didn’t elaborate. Again, Picard followed her example and said nothing more.
Then Admiral Burnett stood up, a holographic screen forming behind him, blocking out a looming dark rock wall a dozen meters beyond. On the screen, Picard identified a standard fleet-deployment map of the Alpha and Beta quadrants, though with many fewer assets inscribed on it than usual.
Burnett cleared his throat and began the briefing. He wasted no time with pleasantries. His voice sounded weak, swallowed by the enormity of the cavern, but what he had to say produced enormous impact.
“In the past eleven days, Starfleet has lost approximately two-thirds of its warp-capable fleet.”
Picard was stunned, and so, he could see, were most of the others at the table. Janeway, surprisingly, was not.
“Fewer than five percent of the affected vessels have been outright destroyed. In most cases, safety systems performed as designed and warp cores were ejected.”
A civilian blurted out a question. “Is every loss related to a warp-core malfunction?”
“Every loss,” Burnett confirmed. “Of our remaining warp-capable assets– ” He gestured to Picard. “– such as the Enterprise, most of them are equipped with older-model cores or are on station with orders not to go to warp.”
Another civilian interjected with alarm. “Admiral, are these ‘malfunctions’ a direct attack on the Federation?”
Burnett glanced at Councillor Jeroba as if they had already had that conversation. “Not just on the Federation. Though the Klingon Empire hasn’t officially commented on any unusual shipping losses, unofficially our contacts with the Imperial Fleet suggest they have lost more than half their warp vessels. Communications intercepts from the Romulan Star Empire indicate their losses are much less, but still significant. Apparently, their larger vessels that use nanoscale singularities to enable warp have not been affected. But their civilian fleet has been almost totally wiped out.
“Even more disquieting is that Deep Space Nine reports no warp vessel, scheduled or otherwise, has emerged from the Bajoran wormhole in the past eight days. That strongly suggests that the malfunctions are occurring in the Gamma Quadrant, as well.”
Picard had to interrupt at that. He raised his hand to signal Burnett, disturbed again by the unfamiliar weight of the monitor on his wrist.
“Jean-Luc,” the fleet admiral said.
“Admiral, if the malfunctions are indeed occurring throughout the galaxy, then why are we certain they’re the result of a deliberate attack and not some new natural phenomenon?”
Burnett held up his own medical monitor. It gleamed in the harsh light surrounding the table. “Why these, you mean.”
Picard waited for an answer.
“In a number of cases,” Burnett said, “the malfunctions appear to be associated with acts of infiltration.”
That was a new revelation to Picard and most of the others. A buzz of reactions grew around the table.
“Can you characterize the nature of the infiltration?” Picard asked.
Again, Burnett held up his monitor. “Shapeshifters. Far more sophisticated than the Founders, or, for that matter, any other polymorphic species known to us. Hence the need to bring all of you here by transporter, so your identities could be confirmed by comparison with earlier transporter records. More serious is that these shapeshifters, in the guise of specific Starfleet personnel, have been sighted on dozens of affected vessels, spread across thousands of light-years, all within days of each other.
