FOREIGN FOES

by Dave Galanter

  Picard scowled across the table at her. “What is this annoying tendency of scientists to be so damned literal?”

  “That’s what science is all about, Captain.”

  Picard gave a “harrumph” and looked down at the spoon he still held in his hand. “Dr. Hollitt, I appreciate your help so far, but I need serious answers. Has there been a similar quake while you’ve been here?”

  She gave her hair a defiant flip. “I would have told you if so.”

  A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed—but maybe that’s one of the reasons civilians like her weren’t in Starfleet.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Asking too many unnecessary questions was another of those reasons.

  Picard thumbed his lower lip and she thought he was either considering an answer, or considering answering.

  “I have a hunch.”

  She laughed. “Ah, I see. That explains your problem with science.” The laugh was nervous and she thought it showed. Here she was depending on this stranger and he had a hunch . . . What did that say about her?

  “I don’t have a problem with science,” Picard said. “In fact, it’s because of my disbelief in coincidence that I have this hunch.”

  “What’s your hunch?”

  The captain shook his head. “I don’t know yet. Some possible connection with the quake and the away team’s disappearance perhaps.”

  “You’re right, that is scientific,” Barbara said dryly. Picard flashed a glare.

  If looks could burn, Barbara would have been a cinder.

  “Lieutenant Worf, reporting as ordered, sir.”

  Five feet from the door, Worf still blocked Picard’s view of its polished wooden frame.

  The captain looked up at the tall Klingon and nearly said, “At ease,” but knew Worf would feel more comfortable at attention.

  Picard sat up straight. “Mr. Worf, we have a very delicate situation. You’ve been accused by the Hidran of murder, and I’d rather not exacerbate matters by keeping you on duty. I must relieve you.”

  “Understood, sir.” Worf yanked his phaser from its holster and placed the weapon on the table. “I stand relieved.”

  The captain pursed his lips. Worf had spared Picard from making the longer speech he’d been dreading, but that was no real relief. He trusted Worf, believed in him, and didn’t enjoy having to relieve him. He just couldn’t keep Worf on duty considering the circumstances—it would only serve to anger the Hidran further.

  The Klingon, still ram-rod straight, looked down and relaxed the expression on his face. “Regulations require it, sir. I would do the same in your place.”

  Of that Picard had no doubt. But he wondered if Worf would feel the same regret. What was the Klingon feeling now? The severity of his thick brow and that bony forehead left most emotions masked. Pride was always there. Anger, sure. Loyalty he wore like a badge. But regret? Picard couldn’t remember finding regret in those dark, shadowy eyes. And as the Klingon stood there, the paragon of a soldier, Picard knew he couldn’t conceal the remorse in his own.

  If anything was clear from the events of the past few hours, it was that Worf was no murderer.

  “Lieutenant,” Picard said, waggling a finger at Worf, “we’re going to prove your innocence.”

  Beverly Crusher closed her medical tricorder and pushed herself up from her half-kneel over Zhad’s body.

  A disgusting sight. Not the sight of blood or the scent of the Hidran’s wet flesh, but the sight and scent of murder itself.

  “Well, Doctor?” Picard prodded. “What do you think?”

  “I think they’re dead.” She spat the words at the captain, and meant to.

  Picard shook his head. “You’re not being enlightening, Doctor.”

  “Fine, you want to know what I think?” She crooked a thumb angrily over her shoulder. “I think the Klingon was stabbed and the Hidran had his face ripped off. That is my official medical diagnosis.”

  “Doctor,” Picard scolded harshly.

  She knew ironic answers where not what the captain had in mind. He never did. But to be here—cleaning up the mess of people who . . . well, who weren’t Geordi. She just wanted to be up there, mending the living rather than sweeping up after the dead.

  Picard gripped Beverly’s elbow with his strong fingers and pulled her to his side. His tone was at once understanding and harsh. “Mr. Worf needs your help as well.”

  It was as if Picard knew where her thoughts were. A doctor with a ship full of patients had a thousand different concerns for a thousand different crewmen. She’d forgotten that a captain’s thoughts radiated farther—the crew, the ship, Starfleet, life, death, right, wrong . . . and Geordi too.

  She lowered her gaze and nodded. A little guilt was a good thing now and then, someone once said. Come to think of it, a doctor probably said it.

  Worf needed help . . . okay. Maybe she could do something. “I don’t know enough about their physiology to determine anything more than the Hidran died of suffocation. Maybe with some files on general anatomy from their ship and sickbay—”

  The captain shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not one of our alternatives at this point, Doctor. Diplomacy.”

  Beverly held up her tricorder. “Science, Captain. And diplomacy has nothing to do with science.”

  Picard motioned to the two dead bodies. “But plenty to do with murder.”

  “I am not willing to sit and wait to be murdered!”

  “Be seated, Batok.”

  “You know they will protect their own and we will not see justice! You know we will be killed?”

  Captain Urosk rose slowly, evenly. If he’d had a knife it wouldn’t be the tension he would cut—it would be Batok’s throat. “Sit down, Batok.”

  Batok paused, testing his captain, then angrily snapped back into his seat.

  Urosk knew that bringing the young hothead along was going to be problematic. He cursed his own decision. Once in space he could have backed out on his promise to allow the ambassador to choose the security force. He should have known Zhad would favor those politically aligned with him.

  “The Federation is different from the Klingon Empire.” Urosk spoke more to the other three, less volatile members of his party. “Even the ambassador said Picard was worthy of respect.”

  Batok twisted away and studied the door. “That was before Picard ordered his assassination.”

  “We do not know that. Worf is a Klingon. He acts as a Klingon.” Urosk forced his tone down, cooler, and began to pace the room.

  He had to keep control of Batok. Like Zhad, the young officer was alive for his hate. If allowed to, he would die of that hate—or for it. Urosk’s concern was to see that Batok did not pull the Hidran race down with him. It was true that without strength the Hidran would have died by the millions, and it remained true. But reasonability was not weakness, and while such knowledge was common among the masters of ships, it was less evident to a people raised on venom.

  “Picard is not Klingon and may not hold their biases.”

  Batok shook an angry orange fist at Urosk. “Picard is a Klingon sympathizer! He has one in his crew—he has been active in Klingon politics—and he speaks their language!”

  Urosk pivoted toward Batok, clamped his long fingers around the young officer’s neck, and pulled him up. “How many Hidran speak Klingonese, Batok? A third? More?” He shoved the young tusk back into the chair. “Shall we slit every throat that cracks a Klingon word?”

  Shuddering with either fear or anger—Urosk could not tell which—Batok narrowed his gaze and looked away from his captain. The highest insult one could pay a superior.

  “Perhaps,” Batok hissed slowly, “we should.”

  No mask could muffle Urosk’s intensity, his anger, as he pressed his face down close to Batok’s. There would be no looking away. “Then we would’ve had to kill Ambassador Zhad first.”

  Batok’s angry expression dulled, and Urosk knew he had hit his mark.

&nb
sp; The Hidran captain turned on his heel and walked toward the door. He pounded three times, summoning the guards, and took in a deep breath of artificially moist air. He wanted to bathe, to feel refreshed by the waters of his planet, to be out of this Klingon desert.

  “I will speak to Picard.”

  “About?” Batok asked defiantly.

  “About justice for the Ambassador and the survival of our people.”

  “Good!” Batok said defiantly, as if he had won his point. “And what if in his actions Picard proves me right?”

  “Then we shall act at the first opportunity. But on my order, Batok. Not yours.”

  “Speak plainly with me, brother.” Kadar faced Worf head-on and gripped the other Klingon’s shoulders. His grip was tight, his smile one of admiration.

  Worf did not shrug off the embrace, but neither did he clamp his hands around Kadar’s arms to complete it. “Captain Picard wishes to meet with you and Urosk in private.”

  Still smiling, Kadar dropped his hands with a fraternal slap on Worf’s shoulders. “The Hidran have thought us weak since we left their space. You were right to execute Zhad. You have restored our honor.”

  “I executed no one.” Anger welled in Worf’s chest. He could feel his muscles tighten and he balled his fists at this sides. “And you were driven from their space.”

  The words were meant to gouge at Kadar, and Worf knew they had. It wasn’t just the truth that was injury to the Klingon captain—it was Worf referring to his people as “you.” It was a distance never spoken by Klingons.

  Kadar’s dark face crumpled into offense and he stepped closer to Worf, overtly making sure not to touch him . . . yet.

  “What are you?”

  Worf knew the rote answer was to be I am Klingon. Silence furthered the insult.

  “Are you my brother?” Kadar growled.

  Again there was silence as Worf studied the Klingon captain’s face. Was this the picture he himself cast? Was his own face this severe and cold? Was he a brother to this one who would gladly kill every last Hidran?

  “I am Worf, and my captain wishes to speak with you.”

  Did they still kill the messengers of bad news? At this point DePotter would have welcomed death. Anything was better than reporting the demise of a superior officer. What was protocol? Should he come right out and say it?

  “Sir?”

  Data turned from the science station. “Yes, Mr. DePotter.”

  Slowly . . . calmly . . . just say it. He’d so wanted to find them. Wanted to save them. He didn’t know what to expect—he almost thought there’d be some beacon to guide him. No such ensign’s luck. Or first officer’s luck for that matter.

  “Planetary scans complete, sir. We’ve pinpointed the Velexian shuttle. It’s crash-landed, sir.”

  “Commander Riker and the counselor?”

  DePotter hesitated. He didn’t know how to say such a thing. He just looked down, unable to meet Commander Data’s eyes.

  “No life signs, sir.”

  There, it was said. His heart shrank and a chill washed over him.

  Data stood, pulling DePotter’s gaze upward as he did. “Ensign, have you scanned for corpses?”

  Corpses?

  DePotter looked down at the padd he carried, as if he might find the answer there. “The bodies, sir? No, sir.” One too many “sirs.” And two too few bodies. The thought was gruesome. He’d just assumed that with the crash . . . and he shouldn’t have assumed. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Data nodded, his bright gold eyes impassive to the error. “Do not be sorry, Mr. DePotter. Be thorough.”

  Barbara watched Picard intently, not knowing if she should stay or go. She wanted to stay—to hear something about Will. Was all this talk classified between Picard and his ship?

  She supposed that the tight little man would tell her if so. The captain’s jaw clenched so often it was a wonder he hadn’t worn his teeth into nubs. And he kept playing with that damn spoon—twirling the thing back and forth between his fingers. How anyone so brusque and affected was able to keep command of hundreds was beyond her.

  “Answers, Mr. Data,” Picard said, annoyed. “You’re not giving me answers.”

  “I only have theories at this point, sir.”

  “At this point, Commander, I’d take readings from a crystal ball.”

  There was silence save for some static over the communicator. Then: “I am unfamiliar with that reference, Captain.”

  Barbara smiled and rolled her eyes downward. There was a bit of gratification in knowing that someone could ruffle Picard’s feathers.

  The starship captain was obviously in no mood for this. “Then you have something to occupy your off hours, Commander. What’s your theory?”

  Data seemed unfazed. “I have two, sir. Since Commander Riker and Counselor Troi’s bodies are not with the shuttle, they may have been taken as hostages and the crashed shuttle left as disinformation.”

  “By whom? For what purpose?” Picard snapped.

  “I would not presume to fathom purposes while formulating such a hypothesis, sir.”

  One moment he demanded answers, the next he chastised Data because the answer wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Barbara had never really thought about joining Starfleet . . . and she was glad.

  She was going to say something, but held herself back. Most important thing now was to hope Picard shut up so she could hear Data’s theories on Riker’s whereabouts. If he had any. And she had to believe—wanted to believe—he did.

  Frowning, Picard rose and walked to the small window across from him.

  “What would the Hidran gain by doing so?”

  Data quickly answered the rhetorical question. “The Hidran, sir? Nothing.”

  Looking out across the saffron fields he began tapping the handle of the spoon on the window sill. This all made such little sense. The Hidran had no cause. The Klingons had no cause.

  “What’s your second theory, Mr. Data?”

  “There is some inexplicable radiation residue at the site. Conclusive answers cannot be made without local investigation since the white-noise transmission is re-engaged, but indications are the area has been exposed to some form of high energy other than the explosion of the shuttle itself.”

  Picard cradled the spoon in his hand as if it were a Starfleet-issue hand phaser. “High energy like a weapon?”

  “That is a possibility, sir.”

  Disgust washed over the captain. He stared at the spoon, thumbed what would be the trigger if it were a phaser, then dropped it to the sill.

  The spoon hung for a moment, left a small silver mark on the ledge’s stone surface, then dropped to the floor.

  Chapter Six

  DARKNESS.

  Not the kind that came with sleep, at night, eyes resting. This darkness was without the familiar swirls of shadows, and lacked the comfort of fading memories of color.

  Perhaps somewhere else there was light, but not here. Here the universe consisted of pitch blackness—chilly and sticky, a cold sweat.

  It was the blindness of death, to be sure.

  She reached out to grasp something. Anything. She felt nothing. There was no feeling. Was she even moving or was there nothing there to touch? All she knew was that she wasn’t dead. And that alone was based on the fragile idea that death didn’t come with headaches. If the pounding in her head was a measure of life, she wasn’t in any danger of dying.

  She tried to croak out a word but found she couldn’t push the air from her lungs. This was a nightmare. It had to be.

  Motion! She felt! She’d moved! A harsh shudder vibrated through her, like the sensation of falling just before drifting off to sleep.

  “Will?”

  Her own voice.

  Sound! Motion and sound! What more did anyone want from life?

  Her eyes were open, weren’t they? She felt herself blinking. They had been closed, and now she felt the cool air on her open eyes.

  There was light here. Faint,
but lovely in its own way; pencil line shafts radiating from . . . a control panel? Sickbay? No—too cold for that—too musty.

  “Deanna!”

  His voice choked dryly, echoing. Not sickbay.

  “Will?”

  “Yes. Where are you?”

  She heard him groan and she began to rise, but her head pounded her back, dizziness washing over her, sheets of cold fog blurring her mind. She quickly lowered herself the few inches back onto the cold slab of whatever she’d been lying on.

  “Deanna, stay where you are. Don’t get up quickly.”

  “I can’t feel you,” she sobbed, her voice raspy. An echo. Not sickbay.

  “I’m right here.”

  But he wasn’t there. Not in the sense she meant. She shook her head, or imagined she did, and tried to put into words the emotions she was feeling. Her emotions—not his. His were absent, and the loss was palpable.

  “No, Will,” she said slowly, trying to control the quaver in her voice. “Mentally you’re not here.”

  Riker coughed, but Deanna could have sworn it sounded more chuckle than choke. She realized just how her comment had sounded, and some of the disorientation she felt was pushed away by the humor.

  Fingertips—Riker’s—on her arm, brought back her empathic sense, and his discomfort mixed in with hers. But so did his high spirits, and she felt herself sigh, a bit more relaxed.

  She moved her hand over Riker’s and gave his fingers a squeeze. “You’re here now. Mentally.”

  “Will wonders never cease?”

  She knew he was smiling.

  The air was not as stiff as a moment ago. She pushed herself up on an elbow and moved toward Riker. In the dim light she could see he was on his knees. His usually crisp blue eyes were shadowy in the dimness. He rose awkwardly, holding on to his injured leg as he pulled her up. She leaned into him, allowing him to do most of the work, her muscles weak and tired as if she’d run a marathon.

  His strength, physical and mental, fortified her. She continued to hold on to his arm as they turned toward the only light they could see.