“I am afraid I do not have the time at present.”
“Why?”
“I will be leading the away team that is to board the Klingon battle cruiser.”
Bolting from his seat, Geordi pressed himself against Data’s desk and leaned down to the android. Maybe he couldn’t see, but Data could and needed to be sure Geordi was serious.
“You can’t, Data! It’s unprovoked. Captain Picard would never authorize that.”
“Indeed, he did. His direct order was ‘do what you must to get to the bottom of the situation.’” The sigh of Data’s chair cushion signaled the android had risen. “And I will do what I must.”
Data had been gone a good five minutes. He’d insisted on escorting Geordi back to his quarters, but Geordi couldn’t shake the feeling that it was because somehow he’d lost the android’s trust—as Worf had.
Quiet thought had done nothing for that sense of paranoia.
There was something wrong with Data, he was sure, but had nothing but a subjective feeling to go on. Subjective feelings were nice to look at and consider, but only told someone how they felt about reality—feelings told nothing about reality itself. And that was what Geordi had to be sure about: the reality of the situation. Did something seem to be wrong with Data, or was there something wrong with him?
There was an enormous difference.
To be sure, he had to talk to someone else about what had happened while he was out of commission. At the same time he could confirm that Data was definitely doing what the captain wanted where the Klingon ship was concerned.
He found the desk communicator.
“La Forge to Captain Picard.”
He was met with the dull tone of a closed frequency and furrowed his brows.
“Computer.”
“Ready.”
“Why can’t I get an open comm-channel to the planet?”
“This station is not authorized for access.”
“Override. Security access: La Forge Gamma three-four.”
“Access denied.”
“Denied?” Geordi pounded his fist on the table. “What do you mean denied?”
The computer began to bleep, formulating an answer.
“Belay that. Who can give me access?”
“Access authorization required from Lieutenant Commander Data, acting captain, U.S.S. Enterprise.”
Geordi balanced his elbow on the desktop, holding his forehead in his palm.
“Well, looks like that’s my objective evidence, isn’t it?”
“Insufficient data.”
He let out a short, bitter chuckle. “You can say that again!”
Whatever fool designed this building, Urosk thought, should be killed. He had not noticed before, but the light was harsh and the dryness of the walls and floor were more than annoying.
But it was not a mindless architect who truly burdened the Hidran captain. It was Picard who was the real fool. And he should be treated as fools are treated: with a firm fist and little patience.
The entire Federation was made of fools, Urosk decided, from those that had offered to help to those that brought him here. Dullards all.
And he, for believing that any good might come of this, was the most foolish. Before coming here the Hidran had only been on the brink of a skirmish with their foreign foes. Now they were on the brink of war.
It was obvious. The Klingons had planned this from the beginning. They would have done anything to assure that Hidra was left helpless enough to be re-conquered. And this time the Klingons would not leave the people alive. The Hidran were a million thorns in the Klingon Empire’s skin, and these pseudo-negotiations had been nothing more than a complex maneuver by the Empire and its Federation allies. It was all some scheme to force Hidra back into a war they knew she would lose.
Defeat . . . only one casualty and he was thinking of defeat! A shameful thing to think of such loss, but it was realistic and Urosk had spent too much time the last few days believing that peace was possible. He was through with such far-fetched ideas. Yet the humiliation weighed on him. Such disgrace was what the Klingons desired for the Hidran people, and they had even succeeded in dishonoring Urosk with his own thoughts.
He could not let that happen—he would not. There would not be another war if Urosk was of any worth to himself and his nation.
He straightened, smoothed his long robe, loosened his muscles.
He closed his eyes a moment, and when they blankly reopened onto the desert of the corridor, he knew what he had to do.
His heartbeat quickened at the thought—his strength both mental and physical seemed rejuvenated. There was a chance to thwart the enemy’s plans, but that would take great skill and care to achieve: Every Klingon on the planet . . . and above in orbit . . . would have to die. Once more it would have to be proven that there were extreme risks to warring against the Hidran.
Urosk would have to take the mask of warrior that he wore, and transfer it to action. Perhaps for his last time.
And if Picard and his Federation interfered—
“Hold a minute, sir,” the Starfleet guard said to Urosk, jolting him from his thoughts.
Aware of his surroundings and the guard again, Urosk surveyed the empty corridor—a vacant hall where there should have been another guard.
If there was to be an opportunity, this was it.
“Connors to MacKenzie.”
The Starfleeter was quick to activate his communicator, and opportunity faded.
The Hidran captain turned back to face Connors.
Strange politeness to be called “sir” by him. These humans could usher someone to a cell for so-called “diplomatic protection” and yet treat their prisoner as if taking them on a garden tour.
There was no answer to the Starfleeter’s call. His guard friend was either gone by his own volition or was inside the cell with Urosk’s comrades. Either way, he was not around. One on one . . . the odds were better than even.
Unfortunately, there was no way of knowing if the human’s call to his absent colleague would be carried to every communicator.
The comm channel would have to close before opportunity materialized again.
The Starfleet guard tapped his badge again, and Urosk thought that was his signal to move. Before he could, the Terran spoke once more.
“Connors to Picard. MacKenzie isn’t at his post and I can’t raise him on the comm, sir.”
“Understood.” Picard’s voice spat from the small speaker. “Remain there. I’m on my way.”
Blast! Picard would be on his way now. Opportunity faded once more, even as this one called Connors turned off his communicator.
“Captain Urosk,” the human said, “I’ll ask you to hold your position with me, sir.”
Urosk nodded and quickly glanced at the Earther’s phaser. Ripe for the taking . . . A phaser against all those defenseless Klingons.
That would make the statement he wanted. A statement that said something about the Hidran and the price one would pay for choosing the path of war.
There was little time in which to decide—
Urosk’s muscles tensed and he waited for the Earther’s eyes to drift away even slightly. He balled his fingers into a fist and paused. One good blow should be enough.
Wait . . . wait . . . the Earther still had the phaser . . .
A sound, some creak in the structure of the building somewhere, forced the Starfleeter’s eyes to dart away.
Urosk’s long arm reached out and struck against the Terran’s head. The man was sure to be knocked unconscious.
The human stumbled back and the Hidran captain swung again, knocking the weapon across the hall.
Connors shook his head clear and twisted toward Urosk as they both tried to get a tack on the phaser that had gone sailing. Suddenly the strong thin rods of the Starfleeter’s legs were around Urosk’s knees. He struggled to free himself, but unbalance tossed him forward onto the hard stone floor.
Pain tried to force
the Hidran’s eyes closed as the two of them pinched together, limbs digging into each other.
Suddenly the human was on his feet again, looking down at Urosk, ready. How? This small being was no match! There should be no contest!
Urosk jumped up, pushing the ache from his torso as he tried to eye where the phaser had fallen. Obviously the human would seek out the weapon as well.
Urosk had to reach it first.
One more good jolt of Hidran strength should make acquiring the phaser academic. He—
Two consecutive flashes of agony exploded into Urosk—in his stomach, in his neck—From where? Why was the Earther not down? “Fall!” Urosk grunted to himself.
Urosk swung his large boom of an arm again and the Starfleeter caught it and spun him away. Another bolt of pain smashed into him. Feet! The human was jumping and kicking like some crazed monkey. Klingons had given up sooner.
Urosk let out an angry gasp and lashed back at the Starfleeter. Both fists clasped together into a club of bone and muscle, he swung hard against the human’s shoulder.
Connors went tumbling down to the ground with a hard grunt.
Finally, he was unmoving.
Urosk stooped to reach for the phaser. Another limb—he didn’t know which—whacked him in the gut and sent him sprawling onto the floor.
The Starfleeter, on his feet again, leaped at Urosk, punching and jabbing and scratching.
Urosk felt one of his eyes swelling shut and he could feel the metallic taste of blood in his throat. Dredging his frustration into strength, he looped his arms around the Earther. If he could not beat the gangly human he would crush the breath from him!
Arms pinned at his sides, feet dangling at least a half meter off the ground, the Starfleeter struggled and grunted his breath away.
Finally Urosk felt the strength drain empty from his opponent’s body. To be sure he crushed his arms together three more times. He would not be fooled again.
When he released him, the Earther crumpled into a heap, a spent log collapsing into an amber bed.
Urosk snatched for the phaser and quickly set it to stun. Unconsciousness from lack of air, if what these humans breathed could be called air, might last only a few moments. On the other hand . . . He triggered the weapon and a bright orange halo enveloped the human for a moment. The Starfleeter was surely out this time. And would stay that way for quite a while.
After plucking the comm badge from the guard’s chest he pulled the man into an alcove to hide him from Picard.
The Enterprise captain would be walking down the corridor any minute . . . and Urosk would be waiting.
Picard . . . he had failed to see the warning signs. He would regret his choice.
Chapter Ten
“PICARD HERE.”
The voice of young Ensign MacKenzie crackled back at the captain from the small comm badge speaker. Interference again. Picard noted the irritation and promised himself he’d be having a talk with Data.
“MacKenzie isn’t at his post and I can’t raise him on the comm, sir.”
“Understood.” Obviously Ensign Connors’ voice, not MacKenzie’s. When had all ensigns started blending together into a blur of youth? “Remain there,” Picard ordered. “I’m on my way.” He rose and shared a concerned glance with Beverly, as well as a quick look with Barbara.
“Captain,” Beverly began again, slowly rising out of her seat, “this is important. I left something out of my report when the delegates were here.” She cast a quick glance at Barbara. “I thought it might be best to tell you this in confidence.”
Picard nodded. “Understood.” He didn’t mind Bar bara’s presence. In fact, since she had voiced her wish to do something about Riker and Troi—something that could make this entire situation worse—he was glad to know where she was. “Proceed, Doctor, but be brief.”
Beverly pulled in a deep breath, held it a moment, then released it quickly. Picard had come to recognize this as her attempt to cover a sigh. He didn’t have time for sighs.
“There were traces of Zhad’s own skin and blood beneath his nails,” she said, then paused, as if that alone should be some revelation.
The captain shrugged his response. “You’d said that earlier. Isn’t that expected? Wouldn’t he have tried to fix the mask?”
She shook her head and a thick strand of orange hair bobbed over her ear. “Gouges in his face and the amount of skin under his nails suggest something else.”
Now Picard needed to hide a sigh. “It just gets worse and worse, doesn’t it?”
Barbara unfolded her arms, gesturing to Beverly. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? This proves that your man didn’t kill the Ambassador. Or at least it’s some fair evidence.”
Picard lowered his head, his fingers finding that pressure point on his temple. Behind there, was a thriving headache that threatened to grow before it faded. “Doctor Hollitt, I don’t think Captain Urosk would accept the suggestion that his ambassador killed himself. It would look as if we were falsifying evidence for our own benefit. Hardly ‘fair’ at all.”
“What if that’s exactly what happened?” Beverly offered.
Nodding, Picard pursed his lips. “A possibility.” He took another step toward the door. “I’ll have more questions when I return.”
Barbara shrugged, hard shoulders turning fluid for a brief moment. “Why? Why would anyone do that?”
“To make the Klingons look bad,” Picard said, wanting to satisfy all her questions even if it delayed him. The last thing he desired was for her to tag along again. She had been an angry puppy at his feet since this all fell apart, and wouldn’t stop nipping at his heels. “To give the Hidran a bargaining chip worth something,” he continued. “Perhaps he was a shrewd ambassador to the last breath.”
Barbara shook her head in disbelief. “To kill yourself is one thing. By the looks of him he suffered.”
“He did,” Beverly confirmed. “Not just the suffocation, but tearing it out would’ve been no painless task.”
“It’s . . . it’s . . .” Barbara seemed to be searching for the right term.
“Fanatical,” Picard offered caustically.
Beverly’s lips curled down into a frown. “Dimwitted is what I’d call it.”
“Either way,” Picard said, inching for the door again, “the fact may not help Mr. Worf one scrap.”
Barbara looked as if she were on the edge of some comment as she began to rise.
Halfway out the door already, the captain quickly shook his head. “Please, Dr. Hollitt, remain here.”
She raised her chin ever so slightly and ever so defiantly. “I can handle myself, Captain.”
Of that he was sure. But still, his orders and instinct were to protect a civilian first, and he didn’t want the regret of one more death upon his shoulders.
“Whether or not you can handle yourself is not at issue, Doctor,” Picard said as he closed the door behind him. “I’m not sure I can handle you.”
“Sir, should you be here?”
Looking down, trying to shield his eyes from the crewman, Geordi shook his head. There was really no need to hide—a well-rounded Starfleet officer had seen things more shocking than eyes without irises. Despite knowing that, there was a self-conscious twinge that Geordi would feel if he thought someone were staring into his sightless eyes.
“I’m just working on a little project to keep me busy, Charlie.” Geordi hovered diligently over his work.
“Can I help?”
Only if you want to share a court-martial with me. “Well, if you really want to do me a favor, you could cheek the particulate filtration sensors on deck seven. The air seemed a little stale up there.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Charlie said, and Geordi heard the ensign’s feet pad away toward the turbolift and a busywork job in a far-off Jeffries tube.
There was silence, and Geordi still felt as if he was being watched . . . or his work was. In any case, the proximity detector said no one was close enough to
get in the way, so he simply tried to ignore the feeling.
He reached over the football-sized capsule that lay open in front of him and he picked up a tool, the location of which he’d memorized. He found the place inside the exposed sensor drone where he had to make his adjustments, and set to work.
His fingertips had to be his eyes here—the proximity detector was useless on such a small scale. He fumbled inside the guts of the drone, sweat breaking on his upper lip. Sloppily, exhaustingly, he made his adjustments.
He hoped.
So damn frustrating: to go from super-sight to super-darkness was a game he’d played every night, yet to stare blankly at the prospect of never playing that game again—at staying forever in the dark . . . well, it scared him, annoyed him, filled him with uneasiness, as if he wasn’t in his own body but instead in some dark cave at the edge of existence.
He refused to ask for help with the drone, of course. Not only would that be rather embarrassing, but what position would it put the crewman in? Geordi was going against Data’s obvious order not to contact the planet without authorization. Perhaps it was Picard’s order. There was too much at risk here . . . better this particular mutiny be kept to himself for a while.
He dropped the instrument, closed the door to the drone’s innards, and flicked the “on” switch. Somewhere to his left, perhaps at about fifteen meters down the aft corridor, there was a chute that would launch the sensor drone outside the ship for a maintenance-pass of the starboard nacelle.
He found the sliding hatch to the chute just a few inches from where his mental picture told him it would be. The proximity detector vest—a temporary model he’d replicated, and hoped he wouldn’t have to eventually have a special one made—did the rest.
With the drone down the chute, he coded in the launch coordinates. Hopefully he hadn’t missed a button on the keypad. There was no way to verify such things without sight. If he was a few too many digits off the mark, he’d be sending the small robot craft off into the planet’s atmosphere, out into the star system, or back into the ship itself where it would crumble against Enterprise’s hull plates. And that was if his jury-rigging had worked at all. The drone could blow up when activated and alert Data that something was amiss. He could see that now: Data having him confined to sickbay for psychological analysis.
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