Star Trek Page 5

  “Yes. They are who I mean.”

  * * *

  “Sounds like a lot of nothing.”

  Stamets frowned at Enav as he adjusted the settings. “It’s static. It’s not supposed to sound like anything.”

  Covering her ears, Tilly cringed. “Then why do you have the volume up so high?”

  Gesturing his apology, Stamets turned it down to a background hum. But to him, there was something helpful about listening for a pattern. Even if the computer found a signal repetition before he might, it was a necessary part of the experiment.

  “When the computer does find a pattern—” Tilly began, but Enav cut her off.

  “You mean if.”

  Through gritted teeth, Tilly replied with an exasperation Stamets had rarely seen from her. “I’m choosing to think positively, Orna.”

  “Right,” Enav said, unconvinced.

  Tilly didn’t reply as she suddenly bounced on the balls of her feet and pointed to the screen. “Look!”

  Wide-eyed, Stamets fine-tuned the controls, tightening the frequency reception to focus on the bandwidths that triggered the pattern alert.

  He turned the volume up slightly again. “If we’d been listening more closely, we might have caught this first,” he told them as beeps, sputters, and a high-pitched whistle filled the room.

  “That is a definite signal pattern,” Tilly said. “Across three different frequency ranges!”

  Then it was gone, abruptly becoming dull static once again.

  “Did we lose it?” Stamets asked, readjusting and calibrating the receiver. “Dammit. We lost it!”

  “It’s recorded, we’ll analyze it,” Tilly said, but Stamets was still trying to find the transmission.

  No amount of signal manipulation or frequency jiggering was bringing it back. The speaker mocked them with random noises and Stamets angrily switched everything off.

  “It works,” Tilly told him, her hand awkwardly on his shoulder a moment before she pulled it quickly off.

  He wasn’t convinced and met her eyes with skepticism. “Does it?”

  * * *

  Hours passed, and Tilly wanted to delay their report, but Lieutenant Stamets was adamant they get feedback before the next jump. While his nerves—and his headache—may have played into his reasoning, he made it clear to Tilly his “vote” was the only one that mattered.

  Saru moved down the steps toward them, his gait effortlessly graceful. “Good morning, Ensign, Lieutenant.”

  “Commander Saru,” Tilly bubbled, in her half-nervous, half-chipper way.

  “You said you have something of interest?” the Kelpien asked.

  Stamets gestured Saru closer so he’d be able to see the console’s display.

  Watching the data stream across the screen, then sneaking a glance at the first officer for a hint of what he might be thinking, Stamets found only a blank stare.

  “I’m not sure I understand.” Saru indicated the frequency graph. “This is an EM radio band.”

  “Yes,” Tilly said, as if that were a new and wondrous thing.

  “That’s not the point,” Stamets assured the first officer.

  Saru waved his hand toward the console, spreading his fingers wide. “Forgive me, but I believe I’ll need some illumination, then.”

  “This,” Stamets said, pointing at a particular flashing data strand, “is a recording of signals we picked up from inside the mycelial network.”

  Saru merely blinked, apparently waiting for more information.

  “We think it’s a distress call,” Tilly said before Stamets could speak.

  “I was getting there,” he grumbled to her under his breath, then continued to Saru. “It could be a distress call. There’s a pattern—”

  “I see the pattern, but don’t see how it’s a distress signal.” The Kelpien again motioned toward the display. “Is there evidence this is not naturally occurring?”

  During their analysis, Tilly’s certainty had encouraged Stamets that their conclusion was correct, but he felt less confident now that he had to explain it. “This, and this, repeats with one frequency, and then another.” He indicated two consistent burst patterns across the different frequencies they were monitoring.

  “Such patterns do present similarly in nature,” Saru pointed out.

  “Like Izarian moon-bats?” said Tilly.

  Saru tilted his head. “An apt example, Ensign.”

  Frustrated, Stamets huffed out an annoyed breath, silently begging Tilly to shut up.

  It didn’t work. “Well, they chitter at two alternating frequencies,” she explained.

  “We’re not talking about moon-bat chitters,” Stamets said. “This transmission may even be encrypted, and moon-bats don’t do that.”

  Likely in an attempt to defuse the tension, the first officer spread his arms wide and bowed his head. “I’m open to examining any evidence you have.”

  Over the next few minutes, Stamets and Tilly shared their proof. The Kelpien listened intently and at one point took over the station and ran his own analytic algorithms.

  “Interesting,” he murmured.

  “Then you see it,” Tilly interjected, clearly unable to let Saru form his own conclusions. “Starfleet regulations—”

  “I’m aware of the regulations.” Saru stepped away from the console. “What you’ve done is extraordinary, and evidence does suggest you’ve recorded some kind of transmission. It may even be from a technologically advanced life-form. But without knowing what the message says …” He shrugged, which for him was somehow an elegant, almost musical movement. “How can we determine it’s a distress call?”

  “Distress calls in most cultures repeat a signal in an alternating pattern.” Stamets indicated the console’s readout, hoping the data still spoke for itself. “Human Morse code or Vulcan cautionary ciphers are very similar to what we’re seeing.”

  “Has the universal translator suggested this is a distress call?” Saru asked. “The database should contain any number of mathematical lingua-codes.”

  Tilly actually snickered. “Did you just make a math joke?”

  “Did I?” Saru may have been smiling, or may have been pursing his lips—it was hard to tell. “In any case, I must ask: Why would someone encrypt a call for help?”

  It was a good question, and off their shared, defeated look, Stamets and Tilly made clear they didn’t have an answer.

  “I can’t bring this to the captain until you have something more definitive. But, if you believe this is an encrypted communication by an intelligent species sent over the mycelial network … decode it.”

  “That’s not our area of expertise,” Stamets said. “Could we use Lieutenant Bryce?”

  Saru shook his head. “Given the importance of our current mission, we cannot have the lieutenant chasing what would likely be referred to as ‘wild mycelial geese.’ ” With that, he moved toward the exit. “I have the utmost confidence you can resolve this yourselves.”

  “Thank you, Commander. We’ll do it, sir!” Tilly called after him. “I mean, I’m sure we will. We just need some time.”

  “Let me know when you do,” Saru said.

  When the doors closed behind the first officer, Stamets turned to Tilly and glowered. “I thought you were going to work on having more unexpressed thoughts?”

  * * *

  “Back to the drawing board.” Stamets pulled his tray from the food dispenser and turned toward Tilly, who already had hers—minus any Rigellian mayo.

  “What? No—we found something. We heard something real,” she told him. “It worked.” She was leading them to an empty table, and he nudged her with the edge of his tray.

  “No, let’s …” He hesitated. “Let’s open this up to more people.” He took a pensive step toward Tilly’s usual dinner companions. Why should her life be so segmented? He could fit in, couldn’t he?

  “You want to sit with us?”

  “I work with fungi, I’m not one myself,” Stamets deadpanned. “I can mingle with others.”

  “No, I didn’t mean … I’m just surprised. Usually you don’t want to be … you know … talky. We all talk a lot. I know it can get annoying.”

  “I work with you,” he said. “I’m immune.”

  Tilly wrinkled her nose, but marched quickly toward her usual table, Stamets in tow.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly, catching up with her. “That was me being playful, I know it doesn’t always sound that way. You remind me of my sister … sometimes.”

  “Kid sister?”

  “She’s older, but—”

  “Ah, so you’re the baby of the family,” she said, as if confirming for herself some deep insight.

  His brows rose skeptically. “Hard to still say at my age, but I guess so.”

  As they took the last two seats at the table, Stamets greeted the group and they all replied more warmly than he expected. Owo was on his right and Tilly sat to his left. Rhys, Detmer, Bryce, and Airiam fanned out in front of them.

  “Is anyone actually left flying this ship?” Stamets asked, motioning to what seemed to be the entire bridge crew.

  “Autopilot,” Airiam said dryly.

  With her somewhat-tinny artificial voice, Stamets wasn’t sure if she was kidding. Thankfully, Tilly leaned toward him and whispered, “She’s being funny.”

  “I got that,” he replied, as if he fully had, then said to the group, “Does anyone ever do a double shift?” In his field he was used to pulling all-nighters if need be, but only since his role developed into “mycelial network navigator” had he begun to worry that fatigue could impact his performance.

  “It depends,” Rhys said. “If something important is happening we usually work straight through.”

  “On the Shenzhou, Captain Georgiou had coffee and sandwiches brought to the bridge in a crisis,” Detmer added. “Everyone took the coffee, but she had to order us to eat.”

  “Couldn’t eat because the situation was too tense?” Stamets took a bite of his salad.

  “Couldn’t eat because the sandwiches were horrible,” Detmer said. “Who even orders liverwurst?”

  “I like liverwurst.” Owo lifted the sandwich from her plate. “This is liverwurst.”

  “Sad,” Rhys said. “We used to be friends.”

  “You’ve probably never even tasted it.”

  “I don’t have to taste something to know I don’t like it,” he said.

  “You and my three-year-old nephew have a lot in common,” Stamets said.

  “I’m glad you’re joining us,” Bryce said. “But why don’t you more often?”

  The astromycologist considered the question a moment, and decided he’d really just felt he needed some connection to those around him. Maybe because his spore dreams and the link to their mystery voice had disappeared of late, and he was seeking a replacement. “Sometimes I isolate myself unnecessarily,” he said finally, and took a forkful of his eggplant parmesan so he wouldn’t have to add anything deeper.

  “You’re always welcome,” Airiam said. “Tilly speaks very highly of you.”

  “You do?” Bemused, he leaned his chin down on one hand and stared at her.

  “Oh, no, I don’t. I—it’s not like I blather on about you.” She uneasily turned to Bryce. “How was quarantine? Glad you’re back with us.”

  He took a sip of whatever was in his mug and squinted sheepishly. “I’ll admit, I was worried for a couple hours.” Seeming not to want to discuss it further, he gestured toward both of them. “Tilly said you two are working on something special?”

  Stamets looked at Tilly, and she quickly explained, “I needed his sign-off to secure the parts we needed for the receiver.”

  “Right. Thanks,” he told Bryce.

  “How’s it coming?”

  Before answering, Stamets took another bite of his main course that had neither eggplant nor parmesan, yet managed to come amazingly close in taste. He then described the experiments he and Tilly had done, the data they received, and the conclusions they had drawn, including that they thought the transmission they received might be a distress call. He wondered if any of them actually cared, despite their listening intently as they continued to eat.

  When he was finished, Bryce was the first to comment. “Why do you think the transmission is alien? Maybe the Glenn is playing with mycelial communication.”

  Taken aback by the thought, Stamets hadn’t considered that. It certainly was possible. The Glenn and the Discovery, by Starfleet directive, were not to compare notes except on a preset schedule. The idea was they wouldn’t cross-contaminate their experiments or hypotheses. Of course, it also meant they couldn’t cross-pollinate either. Stamets always felt that worked to create a healthy competition. It led to Straal finding the tardigrade and taking his experiments as far as he could, then Stamets realizing it was the creature’s DNA that would help them navigate the mycelial network.

  “If it’s the Glenn, why an encrypted mathematical code and not a Starfleet standard hail?” Airiam asked. “My left hand doesn’t encrypt what it’s doing from my right hand.”

  Stamets covertly made sure everyone else had considered that a joke, and decided it was safe to do the same. He didn’t know much about Airiam, other than that the cybernetic augmentations were due to an accident.

  “Maybe it’s just a transmission test,” Bryce suggested. “It could be encoded because they don’t want anyone actually getting a message. Hell, maybe there is no message. Maybe it’s just telemetry from a test probe.”

  “What if it’s some kind of warning?” Tilly wondered aloud. “From an intelligence that inhabits mycelial space the way we do normal space, and …” She glanced over to Stamets, who was staring at her uncomfortably.

  Without saying anything, he hoped his annoyed look suggested: Mention spore dreams and you’re done working with me.

  “Never mind,” Tilly said. Clearly, message received.

  “You don’t encrypt a distress call or a warning,” Owo said.

  “It could be coded rather than encrypted. Maybe the key is either at the beginning or the end of the broadcast,” Bryce said.

  “I like him,” Stamets said, gesturing to Bryce with his fork. “He’s smart.”

  “Comms,” he said, and tapped at his own temple with an index finger. “Gotta have brains.”

  “Wish the rest of us were just as smart,” Detmer said with an eye roll. She moved a strand of red hair over her ear, suppressing a grin.

  “Gosh,” Rhys said, tidying up his tray, “all I do is lock phasers on the other ships and make sure it’s not one of ours.”

  “I press ‘go,’ ” Detmer said.

  “I help too,” Owo reminded her.

  “Sometimes.” Detmer winked and they all laughed—even Stamets. He realized he’d needed that as much as he needed answers to his various problems. For the first time since the dreams began, his tension headache wasn’t even noticeable.

  * * *

  “When I was two, I thought chickens could talk, and that they just used chicken words we couldn’t understand.” Tilly was running new calculations and Stamets gazed up from the opposite console where he was rerunning his first analysis, verifying he’d not missed anything.

  “You actually remember when you were two years old?” he asked, skeptical that was humanly possible.

  “Yeah. I know that’s a little weird.”

  “At least a little. Is there a point to this chicken story?”

  “Maybe these are just chicken words,” she said, waving at the screen in front of her. “Maybe we can’t decode it because it’s not encrypted or coded. It’s just that the universal translator doesn’t speak chicken.”

  Stamets stopped what he was doing. “It’s not enough that people think I make this ship fly on mushrooms? Now you want them to think we’re making first contact with sentient chickens?”

  “Well, if they’re sentient they’re not really chickens, are they? Just—chicken shaped.”

  “So, I should say poultry?” Before she could answer, he motioned for her to join him. “Tilly, look.”

  She rushed to his console and, judging by her expression, she saw the same thing he did.

  “Coordinates. Those look like mycelial coordinates.” She eyed an extra set of values that blinked, as the computer was unsure what to do with them. “But these? I don’t know what this is.”

  “Neither do I,” Stamets said with a chuckle. “But this—it’s real progress. Whoever sent this … maybe they’re giving us their location.”

  A boatswain’s whistle sounded. “Bridge to DASH lab.” Airiam again. “Stand by for spore-drive activation.”

  “Acknowledged.” Stamets had lost track of time, but invigorated by their discovery he cheerfully rolled up his sleeves. For the first time in quite a while, he wasn’t even partially dreading stepping into the cube. They still had to figure out what the extra data meant, but at least Saru would be able to go to the captain and explain that Stamets and Tilly had received and transcribed a message from within the mycelial network.

  As he leaned back onto the support sled, the navigational shunts moved smoothly toward him, connecting to the ports in his forearms.

  “Ready,” he told Tilly through the chamber wall.

  “Black alert.”

  5

  “B-b-black alert. Red alert. R-r-red alert. Bl-black—”

  “Silence that, please.” Saru’s visual spectrum was wider than a human’s, but he could tell the bridge was suddenly bathed in what most would call darkness. “Emergency lights.”

  Dimmer than normal, the emergency lights that flickered on would brighten slowly over time, to give crewmembers’ eyes time to adjust. Despite seeing into the ultraviolet band, Saru needed them as well, but he got his bearings more quickly than others. “Lieutenant Airiam, what happened?”

  “Before my console went dark, it read an incomplete navigation sequence.”

  “Understood.” Seeing the captain’s-chair command-access panel was offline, Saru turned to Bryce. “Contact engineering. We need their status.”