The Transport

[Tachyon 0]

Rawel and Morris entered the Starfleet transport. The former carried a Starfleet briefcase with very special contents. The latter sat next to Rawel and looked at the security officers suspiciously. Rawel just stared out the window as the transport left spacedock and headed for Mars. It would be a short trip, and hopefully an uneventful one.

 

The stars moved slowly past them, distant and fragile pinpricks of light. Rawel's sweaty hands grasped the briefcase tightly, and he could hear his heart pounding. He just wanted it to be over. He wanted to enter orbit and hand over the device, then find someplace to go, some quiet place. This project had been nothing but nerve-wracking difficulty after difficulty.

 

Time slipped by, he lost track of it easily and was surprised when Morris poked him. "Hey, we're here."

 

Rawel became more alert, more aware that he was cutting off circulation to his fingers. He loosened his grasp on the briefcase and started to stand up. Morris quickly rose and pulled out something from his coat pocket.

 

"Don't move, Rawel," his deep voice said menacingly. His right hand confidently held a Starfleet phase pistol, pointed at Rawel's head.

 

"Morris . . ."

 

"Quiet! Just hand over the case, and no one will get hurt!"

 

Rawel looked around for the Starfleet guards, but they glared at him. He realized they weren't guards, they were rebels in Starfleet uniform.

 

Morris kept his aim on Rawel as the shuttle briefly shuddered as it docked with the Challenger space frame. The side door opened, and the pilot announced over the intercom, "Successful docking. Please exit, and I hope you enjoyed your flight."

 

Rawel rolled his eyes. The pilot needed to be more aware of the situation. To Morris he said, "Morris, what are you doing?"

 

"What needs to be done." He seemed neither sane nor mad, perhaps a little bit of both. Sweat ran down his face, but his grip was steady and cool. His eyes were calm, collected, almost serene, but dull with the knowledge that what he did was not easy.

 

He waved the gun a bit to remind Rawel that it was still present. "Give me the briefcase. Now!"

 

Rawel shook his head with grim determination. "No, Morris. I can't. This is my life's work, the biggest project of them all."

 

Morris almost laughed. "Don't you see. I'm threatening you, you don't have a choice in the matter. I'll shoot you and take the case myself. One of my comrades will shoot you and take this case. There is no escape."

 

Emotions flickered across Rawel's face. Defiance, belligerence, reluctance, determination, hope, envy, grief, sadness, anger, despair, and finally: doubt. His mouth twisted into an awful grimace, he held out the briefcase for Morris, and then said a silent prayer.

 

"Cover me," said Morris, who put the gun back in his pocket. He eagerly took the case and, like a child, opened it to see what prize lay inside.

 

To his dismay, the sought-after computer module was absent, replaced by a banana-cream pie with the following message written on it in icing:

 

Got you.

3.14159265358979323846264

 

Morris' expression became one of rage when he realized that instead of a computer module, someone had switched it with a pie that recited pi. He was also dumbfounded. Rawel seized this momentary inaction and lunged at Morris, pushing the briefcase and its pie into the rebel's face.

 

He dived for the airlock door, yelping in pain as a phase pistol blast from a rebel caught him in the shoulder. Nevertheless, he made it out of the airlock, and then closed it behind him. He was safe . . . for now.

 

The wound was not serious, not yet. Wincing, he entered the turbolift. "E Deck," he said. The turbolift obediently moved downward to his destination. With his good arm, Rawel paged the computer core control room to let them know of his arrival. He did not disclose the treachery of Morris . . . not yet.

 

The turbolift eventually stopped, and its door opened. Rawel walked the short distance to the computer core control room, the place where Challenger would finally get a brain.

 

On the centre table lay a large cargo container with the words "Starberg Industries" emblazoned upon the lid. He gratefully opened the container, which contained the module.

 

"Mr. Rawel?" asked a young officer in a nasally, high-pitched voice.

 

Rawel turned to regard a high-strung young ensign. "Yes?"

 

"I am Ensign Landry, I will assist you in the installation of the operating system." His tone became even more snooty. "Listen, I've got a 15:00 tee time and I don't want to be late. So let's just get this over with, okay?"

 

Rawel resisted the urge to laugh at this pathetic character. Landry hadn't even noticed Rawel's arm wound--or if he had, he didn't care.

 

Rawel nodded and handed the module over to Landry, who took it reluctantly and handled it gingerly, as if it had a contagious disease on it. He plugged it into a waiting receptacle at the base of the computer core. All of its lights glowed green for a moment, and then it went back to flashing green and red intermittently.

 

Landry stepped back. "Would you do the honours?"

 

Grateful, Rawel crouched at the base of the computer core. He touched the core and whispered, "Good luck," before pressing the twin buttons on the module which would dump all the code into the core.

 

The lights rapidly flickered green and then shut off. A display at a nearby console showed that the computer operating system was now present.

 

Rawel got up and moved to shake hands with Landry, who haughtily refused. "Thank you, but I can handle it from here," he said rudely.

 

"I'm sure you can," Rawel muttered under his breath. To Landry, he truly wished the best of luck, and wondered how long he would last on Challenger.

 

Rawel left the computer core control room, anxious to find someone qualified to treat his wound. He left the assistant engineers to integrate the individual systems, and wondered if his name, and not just the computer, would survive through the years.

 

Pity that it didn't.