Where Light Drowns

The pale blue containment field snapped into existence with a resonant hum that vibrated in Chen Shen's teeth. He flinched, pressing his back hard against the cold workbench. The shimmering energy dome trapped him within a bubble barely six feet across, turning the dusty workshop into an alien aquarium viewed through tinted glass. The HEMU unit, its sensor cluster glowing with unwavering yellow focus, stood just outside the barrier, an implacable bronze sentinel.

"Commencing bio-sample extraction," it repeated, its flat pronouncement chillingly devoid of malice or urgency – pure, programmed procedure. The articulated arm extended further, the needle-tipped probe humming faintly as it approached the shimmering blue wall. To Chen Shen's horror, the containment field didn't repel the probe; it seemed to part around it, flowing like viscous liquid as the sharp metal tip penetrated the barrier. It moved with terrifying, unhurried precision towards his ruined left arm, held protectively against his chest.

"No!" Chen Shen rasped, desperation overriding pain. He jerked his body away, but the confined space offered no escape. The wrench in his right hand felt absurdly inadequate. He hurled it at the HEMU's sensor cluster with all his failing strength. The tool struck the dark lenses with a dull clank and bounced harmlessly away onto the dusty floor. The HEMU didn't react, didn't even flinch. The probe continued its steady advance.

"Resistance noted. Non-compliance logged. Proceeding with sample acquisition."

The needle-point touched the charred, brittle flesh just below the blackened mass of his shoulder. Chen Shen braced for agony, but the contact sent a different kind of shock through him. A cold, invasive tingle radiated up his nerves, a probing sensation that felt wrong on a fundamental level. He gasped, gritting his teeth against a wave of nausea.

Then, something unexpected happened. Where the sterile metal probe contacted the corrupted, necrotic tissue, a faint, sinister hiss arose. A wisp of dark vapor, almost indistinguishable from the disturbed dust motes, curled upwards. The probe itself seemed to momentarily dim, its internal humming faltering slightly. On the surface of his charred flesh, at the point of contact, an ugly, iridescent purple sheen flared briefly before fading.

"Contamination interaction registered," the HEMU announced, its monotone somehow conveying a note of heightened alert. "Sample integrity compromised. Anomalous energy signature detected. Adjusting analysis parameters."

The probe retracted slightly, hovering mere centimeters away. Its tip glowed with a warmer, more intense white light, scanning the contact point. The HEMU's head swiveled sharply, its other arms unfolding from its torso with surprising speed. One arm deployed a broader sensor array, panels unfolding like petals, while another arm extended a nozzle that pulsed with a soft ultraviolet light, bathing Chen Shen's arm in its glow. The purple sheen reacted again, flickering like trapped lightning under the UV.

"Analysis: Biomatter exhibits high molecular instability and unknown energetic properties. Origin: Extraterrestrial. Classification: Hazard Level Sigma – Extreme Biohazard and Energy Contagion." The synthesized voice remained flat, but the words were terrifying. "Containment protocol insufficient. Directive Augmentation: Purification Protocol initiated. Sterilization field activation required."

A deeper, more resonant hum joined the existing one. From the nozzle bathing his arm in UV light, a different energy began to build – a searing, pure white light that promised annihilation. Chen Shen could feel the heat radiating even through the containment field. They weren't just going to quarantine him anymore. They were going to sterilize him. Erase the contamination. Erase him .

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog of pain. He had seconds. The Kirk data padd! It was still in his pocket. A long shot, a desperate gamble. He fumbled with his right hand, fingers numb and clumsy, scrabbling at the pocket flap of his fatigues. The HEMU was focused on its scans, the UV nozzle cycling up to full power.

"Kirk!" he shouted, his voice raw and cracking. "James T. Kirk! Authorization! Override!"

He finally wrenched the small, rectangular data padd free. He had no idea what to do with it. He slammed it against the surface of the workbench he was pinned against, near a cluster of dark, dead control panels. Thunk.

Nothing happened. The padd remained inert, a dead lump of plastic and metal. The UV light intensified, bathing the entire containment field in its lethal glow. He could smell ozone mixed with the sickening scent of his own cooked flesh. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for oblivion.

Then, a sound. Not from the HEMU. Not from the padd. A low, resonant buzz-hum emanating from the workbench itself. Then a flicker. A tiny spark behind one of the dark screens near his hand. Then another.

The entire control panel cluster embedded in the workbench suddenly flared to life. Ancient, monochromatic amber lights blinked erratically. Lines of text, corrupted and fragmented, scrolled rapidly across cracked display screens. A low, grinding whine filled the air as hidden servos strained against centuries of neglect. The vibration rattled the bench beneath Chen Shen, jarring his injured arm and drawing a pained gasp.

The HEMU paused. Its sensor cluster snapped away from Chen Shen's arm and focused on the suddenly active workstation. The UV nozzle dimmed slightly. "Secondary system activation detected. Unauthorized access point. Security breach."

Chen Shen stared, wide-eyed. The Kirk data padd lay where he'd slammed it, still dark. It hadn't activated this. Had his frantic impact triggered some dormant circuit? Or had the padd itself, a piece of Kirk's own tech, resonated with the prison's ancient systems?

On the largest, central screen amidst the flickering amber chaos, the fragmented text coalesced. Not Federation Standard. Not any language WALI recognized instantly. It was jagged, angular script – Klingon.

"…Partial… linguistic… match…" WALI stammered in his implant, sounding overwhelmed. "…Klingon… dialect… archaic… Translated… fragments: '…ship runs… core breach… sealing decks… warriors… embrace… Sto-Vo-Kor…'…"

Klingon? On a Starfleet prison? The dissonance was jarring. But before he could process it, the screen flickered violently. The Klingon script dissolved into static, then reformed into a different, equally fragmented message – Federation Standard this time, but corrupted:

> > > REPLICATOR SYS… FAILURE DECK 4… > > > ENVIRON CONTAM… ALPHA WING… SEALED… > > > PERSONNEL LOG… KIRK, J.T… ENTRY… > > > …THEY'RE IN THE WALLS… THE WATCHER… IS BLIND… USE… THE CODE… ZEBRA… PRIORITY…

'Zebra'? The word flashed on the screen, clear amidst the corruption, then vanished as the panel flickered again, the amber lights strobing wildly. 'The Watcher is Blind'? What did that mean?

"Unauthorized data stream detected," the HEMU declared, its manipulator claw retracting the bio-probe entirely. The UV nozzle powered down completely. Its full attention was now on the malfunctioning workstation. "Source: Corrupted subsystem. Threat: Potential system override. Directive Priority Shift: Secure data node. Neutralize corruption vector."

The HEMU took a step towards the workbench, its heavy tread shaking the floor. It extended its primary manipulator claw towards the flickering control panels, clearly intending to physically dismantle or disable the source of the anomaly.

Chen Shen saw his chance. With the HEMU distracted, its focus shifted from sterilization to securing the workstation, the containment field seemed to fluctuate slightly, its blue shimmer less intense where it met the workbench vibrating from the panel's activity. The pain in his arm was a white-hot scream, but survival screamed louder. He dropped the useless data padd and shoved his right hand forward, not towards the barrier itself, but towards the cluster of live wires and components beneath the flickering workstation screen – components exposed where ancient maintenance panels had rattled loose during the sudden activation.

It was insane. Suicide. He had no tools, no knowledge. Just raw, desperate instinct.

His fingers brushed against a thick bundle of insulated cables. Nothing. He groped blindly, the vibration of the struggling systems humming through the metal frame. His knuckles scraped against a sharp edge – a torn access plate. He reached deeper, into the guts of the machine, ignoring the potential for lethal shock. His fingers closed around something solid and cylindrical – a power conduit junction, humming with palpable energy. He yanked.

Sparks exploded. Not a massive shower, but a bright, angry cascade that lit up the underside of the workstation. A feedback screech tore through the HEMU's vocal emitter, a sound of pure electronic agony. The containment field flickered violently, stuttering like a dying bulb. The HEMU reeled back, its sensors flaring erratically, its movements jerky and uncoordinated, temporarily blinded and overloaded by the energy surge Chen Shen had inadvertently redirected into its proximity sensors via the destabilized workbench circuits.

The containment field vanished. The resonant hum died instantly. Chen Shen stumbled forward, propelled by his own momentum and the sudden lack of resistance. He crashed to his knees on the dusty floor, agony lancing through his shoulder, his vision swimming. He had to move.

He scrambled, half-crawling, half-stumbling, away from the workbench, away from the disoriented HEMU that was now turning back towards him, its movements regaining their predatory precision, its sensor cluster glowing with renewed, furious intensity. The workstation panels sputtered and died behind him, plunging that corner back into gloom, the fragmented messages lost to the void.

"Containment breach!" the HEMU's voice was sharp, clipped. "Sigma Hazard unrestricted! Directive Prime: Contain or Terminate!"

The UV nozzle snapped back into position, cycling up with a high-pitched whine. The manipulator claw shot out, aiming for his legs. Chen Shen threw himself sideways behind a heavy tool cart laden with dusty equipment. The claw slammed into the cart, sending wrenches and spanners clattering to the floor. The cart shuddered but held.

The workshop door! It was still open. His only escape. But the HEMU was between him and it, recovering fast. The UV light pulsed, scorching the air where he'd just been. He couldn't fight it. He couldn't outrun it for long. He needed a diversion. He needed chaos.

His gaze swept the cluttered workshop, landing on a large, cylindrical tank mounted against the far wall near the door. It was unmarked, covered in grime, but heavy-duty hoses snaked from its base into the floor. A fuel tank? Coolant? Pressurized gas? He didn't know. He didn't care. It looked critical.

He spotted a heavy metal cutting torch abandoned on a nearby workbench. Fuel canister still attached. Hope flared, desperate and wild. He lunged for it, ignoring the tearing pain in his shoulder. His right hand closed around the handle. It felt solid, heavy. He fumbled for the ignition switch – a simple twist valve.

The HEMU rounded the tool cart, its sensor cluster locking onto him. The UV light intensified, focusing into a searing beam aimed directly at his chest.

No time. Chen Shen pointed the torch nozzle blindly towards the large cylindrical tank near the door. He twisted the ignition valve on the cutting torch handle.

Nothing. No spark. No flame. Just a dry hiss. Empty? Damaged?

The HEMU took another step, raising its manipulator claw to swat him aside or pin him down. Chen Shen did the only thing left. He screamed, a raw sound of defiance and terror, and threw the entire cutting torch assembly – heavy handle, useless nozzle, empty fuel canister – with all his remaining strength, not at the HEMU, but past it, directly at the base of the large, unidentified tank near the workshop door.

It was a pitiful missile. It struck the tank about halfway up with a solid clang . The tank didn't rupture. It didn't explode.

But something did happen. A loud, piercing alarm – different from the HEMU's tones, a deeper, wailing klaxon – suddenly erupted from speakers hidden in the ceiling. Red emergency strobes began flashing violently throughout the workshop, casting the scene in alternating pulses of blood-like light and stark shadow. Signs above the tank and around the door, previously dormant, lit up with glaring red symbols: RADIOLOGICAL HAZARD and CONTAINMENT BREACH - EVACUATE .

The HEMU froze. Its sensor cluster snapped upwards towards the flashing lights, then swiveled back towards the tank, then to the door, its processing momentarily overwhelmed by the conflicting emergency protocols flooding its system. "Alert! Radiological Containment Breach Detected! Location: Engineering Workshop Delta-7. Priority Override: Environmental Hazard Mitigation! Evacuation Protocol Initiated!"

The large tank itself began emitting a high-pitched, oscillating whine. Heavy blast shutters began grinding downwards from recesses above the workshop door and the other exits, sealing the room in sections. The HEMU seemed torn, its directives warring: Contain the Sigma Hazard (Chen Shen) versus Respond to the Radiological Breach. Its manipulator claw retracted, the UV nozzle dimmed. It took a hesitant step towards the tank, deploying a different sensor arm.

Chen Shen didn't hesitate. This was the only chance he'd get. He scrambled out from behind the tool cart, ducking low beneath the HEMU's distracted sensor sweep. He ran, stumbling, gasping, clutching his ruined arm, towards the main workshop door. The blast shutter was descending fast, already halfway down. He threw himself forward, sliding on his side through the gap just as the heavy metal slammed shut behind him with a final, thunderous BOOM , sealing the HEMU, the phantom radiological alert, and the flashing red hell inside.

He lay panting on the cool metal corridor floor, the echoes of the klaxon still faintly audible through the sealed bulkhead. The corridor's steady blue-white work-lights seemed blessedly calm after the chaos. He was out. Bruised, battered, his arm a universe of agony, but out.

He struggled to his knees. He needed to get away from the door, in case the HEMU overrode the emergency protocols or the blast shutters failed. He needed to find help. Medical. Answers. The words from the flickering workstation echoed in his mind: 'The Watcher is Blind… Use the Code… Zebra…' What did it mean? And the Klingon script? What was a Klingon doing logged in a Starfleet prison core?

"…Vital signs… critical," WALI's voice was weak, staticky. "…Blood loss… accelerating… Systemic… failure… imminent… Locate… medical… facility…"

He knew. He could feel it. A coldness deeper than the corridor's chill was seeping into his core. His vision blurred at the edges. He forced himself up, leaning heavily against the corridor wall, leaving a smear of dark ichor and dust on the pristine metal. He had to keep moving. He shuffled away from the sealed workshop door, deeper into the silent, ancient heart of the prison.

As he turned a corner, the corridor opened into a wider junction. Directly ahead, massive double doors, far larger and more imposing than the workshop bulkheads, dominated the wall. Above them, stenciled in faded but still legible Federation Standard, were the words: PRIMARY REACTOR CONTROL & SECURITY HUB . Alongside the words was a large, stylized emblem: a shield design incorporating elements of both the Starfleet delta and the angular Klingon emblem. Below the doors, a heavy-duty access panel glowed softly. A keypad. And above the keypad, a single word pulsed gently, awaiting input:

> SECURITY OVERRIDE: ________

Chen Shen stared at the panel, then down at his ruined arm, then back towards the sealed workshop behind him, the phantom radiological alarm finally falling silent. The silence of the tomb pressed in again. The code flashed in his mind, a desperate lifeline cast by a dead captain from a flickering screen.

Zebra.

Did he dare? What lay behind those doors? Salvation? Or a deeper layer of the tomb? He lifted his trembling right hand, fingers hovering over the keypad, the weight of ages and the insistent cold of encroaching death pressing down on him. The Watcher might be blind, but what waited in the dark behind the code?