The walk back to his cabin was painfully long and his mind more on the adjustments he’d have to make to his communicator than the layout of the ship. Had it not been for the proximity vest he would have slammed into bulkheads three times.
Damned if he didn’t feel as if he was being watched all the time. Senselessly self-conscious maybe, but just couldn’t be helped. Maybe he was paranoid . . . or was he just intensely aware? That thought made him chuckle. Wasn’t there an old saying that if you thought you were crazy you probably weren’t?
Okay, so Geordi felt embarrassed at his loss. That wasn’t abnormal. Data was the one acting abnormally. It had to be some sort of damage at work there. How else could Data be so against Worf? And the Klingons? Had the Hidran found some way to tap into him? And how could the android forget—twice—that he shouldn’t nod to Geordi? Data could remember the names of a thousand angels dancing on the head of a pin. For him to forget anything so simple proved there was something wrong with him.
Didn’t it?
Geordi’d let the captain decide.
He skittered into his cabin, threw himself toward a table he often tinkered at, and pulled his communicator from his chest. He clutched the comm badge in one hand, and pulled a small contraption out of a drawer.
It was no easy task to change the frequency of a communicator without notifying the controlling computer of the alteration. This gadget would help—but it would have to be tricked into it.
These were the moments that Geordi fancied himself a rather dangerous gent if he wanted to be. That idea quickly cooled into a frightening thought . . .
Data could be dangerous as well.
Geordi hurried himself through the rest of his work: fingers flying untidily over the small, detailed work. Had he been able to see he would have been done in moments . . .
When finished he hastily pushed his tools to one side. Leaving the communicator on the table top, he tapped and it chirped, passing normal channels and searching for the drone that had been converted into a makeshift jumper. The signal would find the drone and jump from there to the planet and hopefully reach Picard through the white-noise transmission blanket.
Clenching his fists in anticipation, Geordi moved in toward the communicator. “La Forge to Picard. Come in.”
Picard closed the door quickly behind him, a little awkwardly, not accustomed to a door that didn’t follow orders. A civilian door—like its owner. He was already surprised Barbara hadn’t followed him into the hall.
Civilians. He remembered complaining to his superior for assigning him a ship that would house civilians like some star-skipping starbase. It was dangerous, foolish . . . and yet he had coped. Riker had helped with that. Amiable, genial Will Riker who had somehow walked the line between commander and father figure to a crew of families. A line Picard didn’t want to look for, let alone find. He was glad to leave that to Will.
Riker. Where were he and Troi? If they were anywhere.
One fiasco at a time, Picard reminded himself as he strode toward the corridor entrance that would lead him to Connors.
Perhaps he should try to contact MacKenzie himself. If Data had been diddling with the frequencies again . . . There was an odd happenstance. Data had been acting quite out of character. It was like him to suggest alternatives—but to act on them without authorization. Another officer might, but Data?
No large matter. Picard had endless other problems. Riker and Troi, Worf and the delegates, Zhad’s death, the Klingon delegate’s death . . . All this had been so well planned. Or so he’d thought. The plan had shattered into a thousand shards when Zhad died and took the Klingon with him.
But was Zhad killed or did he commit suicide? That was now a valid concern.
“Why? Why would anyone do that?” Barbara’s question kept tugging at him. A good question.
What did the Hidran gain if Worf was implicated? Perhaps the Federation would “owe” the Hidran? The politicians in the Federation Council might think so.
Maybe it had nothing to do with the Federation. What if such an act of self-sacrifice was for some internal Hidran element that Zhad disagreed with? Or agreed with? It wouldn’t be the first time someone scuttled their own ship so as to paint themselves the damaged party.
There were endless possibilities.
The Hidran knew the Federation and the Klingons were allies. If a Klingon who was a Federation citizen murdered the Hidran ambassador, the Klingons themselves may have to disavow such action by supplying the Hidran with what they wanted: the Federation might apply pressure to that end because it was their citizen. Two implications in one.
But which? Did Zhad want to stop the treaty because he was against it, or did he want to assure the treaty because he thought it would be spoiled?
“I suspect you will regret your dealings with the Klingons, Picard. I know I will.”
Those had been Zhad’s last direct words to Picard. Did the Ambassador plot his own death at that point?
So many alternatives, the only one that seemed totally implausible, to Picard at least, was that Worf intended to murder Zhad.
But what if it was an accident? Worf admitted to striking the Hidran. What then?
Which was true?
The mind boggled.
Somehow he had to reason it all out.
Reason. Reason seemed to have evaporated as of late. He had to do something to get logic to condense again.
Without signaling, Picard’s communicator suddenly spat itself to life. “La Forge to Pic . . . —om in.” The signal broke itself with static.
Geordi? Why? What was wrong? Picard tapped at the comm badge. “Picard here. You’re breaking up, Mr. La Forge.”
“Little time, Captain. Jury-rigged comm. Something wrong with Data—my opinion that . . . damaged somehow. He’s restricted commun— . . . —is planning to forcibly board the Klingon vessel. I believe . . . against your orders, sir. Can you confirm?”
Picard halted his gait down the corridor. “What? repeat that, La Forge,” he ordered, the sharp needle of a headache promising never to fade. “I have given no order to board the Klingon ship, Commander. You are to relieve Mr. Data on my authority.”
Static sputtered, filling the narrow corridor with echoing noise.
“Captain, do you read me?”
“I read you, La Forge. Carry out my order!”
“Captain? If you can hear . . . at all . . . —ease respond.”
“I read you, Commander. Relieve Data of duty. Assume command and reestablish main—”
“Are you attempt— . . . to signal back? I ca— . . . no— . . . as— . . . cha— . . .”
“La Forge! You’re breaking up!”
The connection withered into a blank crackle of irritating noise. The captain hit the comm badge again. “Picard to Enterprise.”
Nothing.
“Picard to Enterprise!”
“Enterprise, Data here.”
“Mister Data, have you released communications as I ordered?”
“Not yet, sir.”
Picard didn’t need to ask why. “Commander, are you preparing an away team to board the Klingon vessel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I specifically forbade that plan, didn’t I, Commander?”
There was a pause. “Specifically, sir, you said I should do whatever I must to get to the bottom of this situation.”
Picard didn’t need to pause. His actions were clear. “Commander Data, you are hereby relieved of duty. Relinquish command to the duty officer and report to Bioengineering for a complete diagnostic.”
Silence. No static.
“Captain, I assure you I am in perfect running order. If you would allow me to explain—”
“I haven’t time for explanations, Commander. You have your orders. This time make sure you carry them out.”
“Captain,” Data inquired in his normal, even tone, “are you under duress?”
“No I’m not under duress,” Picard barked.
&n
bsp; “I believe you are, sir, and I cannot follow a coerced order.”
“Mr. Data!”
There was silence over the comm. No static.
“Commander Data, beam me aboard immediately.”
“I am sorry, sir. I believe you to be giving that order under threat of physical violence. I can not release the white noise transmission blanket under these circumstances.”
“Commander, you are relieved of duty. Relinquish command to Mr. La Forge.”
“I assure you, Captain, I shall do all in my power to achieve your rescue. Enterprise out.”
The signal chirped closed, and Picard was alone. More alone than he had ever felt.
He jabbed at the comm badge again, twice, and was taunted, panicked by quiet.
“It couldn’t possibly get any worse,” Picard said to himself as he turned back the way he’d come. He’d get back to Dr. Crusher—have her call Data and beam up to the ship. Put her in temporary command. Not his first choice, but everyone else was either under arrest, missing, blind or insane.
He chuckled ironically, wondering which he would succumb to.
A pressure in his back, warm . . .
“Halt,” said a muffled, gravely voice from behind him. “Do not reach for your weapon.”
Urosk, a phaser pressed into the small of Picard’s back, pushed the captain forward as he reached his long, orange arm around and wrested the weapon from the Starfleet captain’s holster.
“You will come with me, Picard,” Urosk said.
Picard turned slowly around to face the Hidran captain. “Where are my men?”
“Sleeping.”
What did that mean? Unconscious? Dead?
“I want to see them.”
“The time for what you want,” Urosk hissed slowly, holding both phasers on Picard now, “is at an end.”
Chapter Eleven
BARBARA CLENCHED THE HANDLE of her phaser close to her stomach and tried not to breathe. One overt move—one sound that gave her away—and Picard might die. She watched tacitly as Urosk forced the captain through the hatchway.
The door closed behind them. Picard had said something as Urosk shoved him in, Barbara couldn’t tell what.
She anxiously chewed at her lower lip. If only Urosk’s phaser hadn’t been trained so closely on Picard . . . Then again, the two of them were only centimeters apart. From where she was, pressed into the alcove of a doorway, she wouldn’t have been able to target Urosk if he’d had a bullseye on his back. All the training she’d had with a phaser was the two-hour class offered when she purchased one a few years ago. She knew the settings and what they could do, but even those were on a civilian hand weapon, not the sleek, military one she now held in her sweaty palm. This she had gotten from one of her lease-a-guards. It looked much more like a Starfleet weapon than her old phaser-pistol, and it was warmer to the touch, pulsing with pent-up energy.
She rose, straightened herself, then quickly shrank back against the wall. Footsteps shuffled. Heavy ones. Another Hidran—shifting down the hall toward the door. She could smell the sour mustiness of him as he passed. Unnoticed, she pushed out her breath in short, quiet bursts.
Her heart was pounding so loudly she thought that it might give her away. Not the sound—the fact that she might have a heart attack, fall on her own phaser, and vaporize herself and half the building with her.
The Hidran hesitated before joining the others beyond the hatch. He looked from side to side, seemingly apprehensive, then finally disappeared through the door.
Quickly she moved from doorway to doorway up the corridor, carefully watching that hatch for any sound or movement and pausing to hide her form behind any supporting pillar that allowed.
From behind her came a moan and she jumped. In the alcove next to her, crammed between the tight walls, were two men in Starfleet security uniforms. Picard’s missing crewmen, obviously on the job.
Without a holster for her phaser she had to set the safety and tuck it under her arm as she helped one of them up. She pulled him out into the hall, guiding him to sit against the wall. He groaned a thanks and she did the same for the other. Both had lost their communicator/insignia she noticed.
“What happened?” Barbara asked.
The first one she pulled out—tall and human with brown curly hair—spoke in a raspy voice. “The Hidran captain attacked me . . . Tried to get my weapon.”
“Tried?” she asked wryly.
Curly looked up indignantly. With the bruise on his jaw and an eye swelled closed he hardly looked threatening. More like a school boy who’d been in a playground scrap.
Barbara glanced at the other man, who was still dazed.
She helped the groggy one sit up straighter, cupping her hand behind his head to give it balance.
“The Hidran have your captain,” she said matter-of-factly, trying to mask her building panic.
Suddenly the Starfleet men were both alert. “When?” Curly demanded, pushing himself up into a stoop.
“A few moments ago. I didn’t want to try anything that’d get him killed.”
Curly’s eyes darted to his comrade, then to the weapon crooked into Barbara’s arm. “Give me your phaser.”
She grasped the weapon in her fist and shook her head. “Sorry, fellas. People weren’t dying around here until Starfleet showed up. I’ve got mine, you get yours.”
“Ma’am,” Curly said, standing straight now, looking stronger every moment, “we have a situation here—”
“Is that what you call it?” Barbara snapped, gripping her phaser close. “A ‘situation’? Your captain is being held by people who don’t think twice about killing themselves for a cause let alone someone else, and you’re calling it something less than a disaster?”
“Ma’am—”
“Your mother’s a ‘ma’am,’ kid, not me. You two want to dig up some phasers and come back, that’s fine—I’ll stay here and watch the door, but this place is swimming with killers and I’m not giving up this weapon.”
“You’re not qualified—”
Barbara cut him off. “The way I see it, Curly, you two lost yours and I still have mine, so let’s not brag about qualifications.” She waved them away. “Go now, so you can get back sooner.”
Curly frowned, then finally pulled his buddy up with him. “Fine,” he said. “You can stay here, but don’t attempt anything. You see that door open, get back to the main hall. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”
Barbara covered a chuckle. They’d do what she wanted so long as they could give an order making it sound as if they’d thought of it. Military types—they were all alike.
“Gentlemen . . .”
They stopped their gait down the corridor and turned back to her.
“Just a suggestion, Curly,” Barbara said, “but I’d see how the Klingons are holding up. The Hidran goon who attacked your friend wasn’t going out for Romulan take-out.”
They both sneered at her, then were gone down the corridor—back toward the main hall. Barbara shrank into the alcove where they’d been “resting” and watched them leave. Running—they were running. A few moments ago they’d been unconscious. They were more qualified and she should have let them stay while she ran for help. Or the hills. Something.
Stupidity took on new definition as she realized what she was doing: guarding five Amazon fish with bad attitudes and superior training. She had one weapon and a two hour class in “how to store your phaser properly.”Wonder if they’d go for that—challenge them to properly store their phasers?
How many phasers would they have? Picard’s, the two guards’ . . . so maybe three. But one of them had come back after Urosk went in with the captain. How many had he “happened” upon? She had to assume they were all armed. Five to one. Not exactly odds she’d play at an Argellian casino.
She should have known something like this would happen. This is what you got when you put Hidran oil and Klingon water in a Starfleet blender.
She shrank back int
o the alcove, her back to a door that led to some room she’d never used. This building, a grand stone hall with a maze of rooms and offices on all sides, was the only standing structure on the planet that was more or less intact. Who had built it was unknown. The tapestries that lined the walls in the main hall appeared to be of an agrarian culture, but nothing else on the planet seemed to speak to that. There were no mills, no holding silos, no overgrown farms. There were a few other structures she was sure . . . somewhere on the planet. There must have been—she remembered reading something about them in one of the articles she’d seen about Velex. She hadn’t been here long enough to see for herself. Maybe Riker had found one of those. Maybe he had survived the crash. Maybe—
An electronic sound, the hatch opening, yanked her away from her thoughts. She scrambled to her feet, drawing herself up into a small crouch.
She couldn’t see anything inside the door—too dark.
What was she doing here? No one called for a scientist.
She aimed the phaser, set it on heavy stun, and fired at the door.
Nothing! Damn! The safety!
One of the Hidran poked his head from behind the door. He looked around.
Thumbing the safety, Barbara took careful aim at the Hidran that was now stepping from behind the hatch. She fired—a bright cable of energy stabbed out toward the other end of the hall. She was watching her shaking hand and not her target, and by the time she looked up the Hidran had skittered back into the room.
She knew he’d had nothing to worry about—her shot must have flashed against the ceiling at least three meters from him, harmlessly absorbed by the sandstone. A small flutter of dust fell to the ground in the silence that followed.
A salmon-colored arm reached out, a phaser in hand. Barbara fell back into the protection of the alcove as a piece of the wall near her—where her face had been—evaporated. That wasn’t the mark of a phaser on stun. They were not playing games.
Her hand was shaking worse. She fired blindly again, around the corner of what was left of her protection. She heard the blast—didn’t know what she’d hit. Her quivering hand couldn’t have helped her aim, yet there was no sound. Maybe she’d gotten lucky and stunned him.
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