FOREIGN FOES

by Dave Galanter

  Deanna was talking, saying something about leaving the bandage off to let the leg breathe. Riker was exhausted and couldn’t really listen. The pain in his leg was pulsing—waves of heat that radiated up his leg and gave him a headache. Water . . . He was suddenly thirsty and wanted to be immersed in a pool of cool water.

  “Are you all right?” Deanna asked.

  “Water . . .” Riker groaned. “I’d like water . . .” “I know,” she said softly. “Relax a moment.”

  And he did. The room seemed to darken and brighten as he slipped in and out of light sleep. The pain became a steady thudding in his leg and was manageable like that. After a few moments, perhaps it was longer, he opened his eyes wide and thanked her.

  “I’m better,” he said, and noticed the smoke was so thick in the machinery room that it was beginning to glide out into the hall. “No one’s shown up, huh?”

  Deanna shook her head. “And I still don’t feel anyone.”

  Riker sighed. “We have to get off this ship. We—”

  He turned his head left, trying to hear down the corridor. The sound of the still sizzling machinery got in the way. “You hear that?” He asked, suddenly feeling stronger, as if he’d had a good meal and a long night’s sleep. He licked his lips, his mouth still dry. “What is that?”

  “I don’t hear it.”

  He held up an index finger. “Listen.”

  She cocked her head in the direction he was looking. “I hear it. Someone’s coming!”

  Riker grabbed at his phaser. At some point Deanna must’ve returned it to his holster. “Help me up. I don’t want to meet our generous hosts sitting on my butt.” He tested the weight on his bad leg and decided he could live with the pain. “You feeling anything?”

  “Not a thing,” she said, gripping his arm. “Whoever or whatever . . . it’s too alien for me.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, we’ve lost power again.”

  Geordi imagined Data’s brow wrinkling at that one. “Explain,” Data said, static etching his voice. Geordi tried to tune the hand communicator a bit better. He laid it on a level place in a crevice of the Jefferies tube, thanked his lucky stars that he’d found it—knowing the old-issue comm wouldn’t be missed—and set about his work as he listened.

  “Same power loss as before, sir,” the Transporter chief said, probably struggling with his controls.

  “Data to Engineering. Transporter Room Five is now experiencing a power loss.”

  Geordi stifled a chuckle. This was all too serious and dangerous for that, but he had to admit a little pleasure at being such a good mutineer. His father had always told him to do his work as best he could.

  And even blind, quarreling with the darkness and fumbling with his tools and the circuits before him, he was doing just that.

  “Cheng here, sir. I still see you as reading full power.”

  Geordi shook his head. He was really going to have to spend a little more time showing Cheng the ins and outs of Engineering. Of course, the tampering was being well hidden.

  Quite the decision Geordi had made here. He hoped he was right. He’d heard a word or two of Picard’s response to him. It wasn’t enough to know what the captain had said, but it was enough to know that Picard hadn’t been under duress. If so, why did he have his communicator? And why did he contact Data right away, as Data himself had admitted? Chances were the captain had heard most of Geordi’s message and when he contacted Data to see what the problem was, the android had slipped further into . . . well, whatever his problem was.

  Geordi’s problem was more obvious: he couldn’t allow Data to beam down and start accusing Klingons—or, in his absurd state, do something worse. Geordi was taking a gamble. He might lose, but knew that if he didn’t try, the Klingons on the planet surely would.

  “Stand by.” Data’s voice again. “Computer, locate Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge.”

  “Locating my communicator will be easy, Data. I’m smarter than that,” Geordi said to himself.

  “Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge is in cabin 2471, deck two.”

  “Don’t do it, Data,” Geordi grumbled, his hands fiddling faster with the controls at the end of the Jefferies tube. “Don’t force me to up the ante.”

  There was silence from the comm, and for a moment Geordi thought he’d lost his link or had been found out. Finally, though, he heard Data’s order: “Scan cabin 2471, deck two, for life-form readings.”

  “Scanning. No life-form readings.”

  Geordi heard the opening of the transporter room door, and then Data again. “Lieutenant Wyckoff, I have reason to believe that Commander La Forge is either ill, or under the influence of a Klingon agent. Security is to locate Mr. La Forge and confine him.”

  “A Klingon agent, sir?”

  Well, at least someone was questioning all this . . . garbage.

  “It is a possibility,” Data said, too damn convincingly. He sounded as if he knew something they didn’t.

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Damn. They were going to trust him. The reluctant, questioning tones were there—just not strong enough.

  “Also, signal General Quarters. I will be on the bridge. Please contact me when you have located Commander La Forge.”

  Geordi heard an “aye, sir” and the swishing of the transporter room door again.

  What now? If security backed Data, eventually Geordi would be found and . . . he’d be powerless to do anything.

  And he would be found. Unless . . . unless he found them first. But only when he was ready.

  He stuffed his tools back into his small bag, covered the access plate, grabbed the hand communicator, and scurried back down the tube. There was no way to tell where security was going to look for him first, but it might be a Jefferies tube that had something to do with transporters, so best to get out of that one.

  “General Quarters. All hands, General Quarters . . .”

  The alarms began to sound and Geordi could hear the rush of people scrambling to their quarters or duty stations. He decided to duck into a rec room bathroom.

  He flipped open the hand-comm and fingered a few dials. “Computer, tie in to communicator, authorization La Forge.”

  “Ready.”

  “Now that’s more like it.” He sat down on the head’s seat, allowing his tool kit to drop to his feet. He held the communicator intently before him, and started to map out the orders he’d need to use.

  “Computer, locate Lieutenant Wyckoff.”

  “Lieutenant Wyckoff is in turbolift twelve.”

  “Computer, what is the heading of turbolift twelve?”

  “Turbolift twelve’s destination is deck two.”

  Geordi yanked himself up so quickly that had the commode not been attached to the deck it would have fallen back. “Okay. My cabin. Good place to start.”

  By the time Geordi reached deck two—and he was sure to take the access ladders rather than the turbolifts—he knew Wyckoff would already be at the cabin. That was fine. Geordi didn’t want to walk into his cabin when Security was there—that would make it seem as if they were catching him by surprise. He needed to catch them by surprise.

  And he did. When Wyckoff and his two men came out from Geordi’s cabin, the engineer made sure he was standing in front of that door.

  “Commander La Forge—”

  “Lieutenant Wyckoff, I presume?” Geordi asked. He could feel the tingling from his proximity vest that said they were only a few feet from him. “I’d heard you were here. We need to talk.”

  “Sir,” Wyckoff said apologetically, “I’m to take you into custody. Commander Data’s orders.”

  “I know.” Geordi gestured toward his cabin door.

  “Let’s talk.”

  “My orders, sir—”

  “Lieutenant,” Geordi said, opening his eyes wide, allowing them to see his blank, white, sightless eyes, “I’m blind. I’m not going to try to overpower you. I’m not going to phaser you. I’m going to talk to you. A
nd if you don’t like what I have to say, I’m going to go with you quietly. All I want is five minutes of your time. If I were trying to avoid you, it would have taken you more than two minutes to find me, right? Instead, I came to you.”

  There was silence for a moment. Perhaps they were all exchanging glances. For all Geordi knew, a crowd had gathered, including Data.

  “Okay, sir,” Wyckoff finally said. “Five minutes.”

  Geordi nodded, and walked forward, through them, and into his cabin.

  As soon as the door swished closed behind them, Geordi turned and began.

  “Data isn’t himself,” Geordi said. “Jim,” he said to Wyckoff, “you know me. Am I a Klingon agent? Worf is your superior—your friend. Is he?”

  Geordi didn’t allow an answer.

  “Look at Data’s warped facts,” he continued. “No one is allowed to contact the planet. Supposedly Commander Riker and the counselor are missing, and that’s the Klingons’ fault. Worf is maybe accused of murder, but it hasn’t been proven—even by Data’s admission—and yet Data pronounces him guilty. Captain Picard is apparently under duress, but then why did he have his communicator? And why won’t Data let me talk to the captain as I requested? Why am I assumed to be a Klingon agent just because I’ve questioned Data’s orders?”

  Geordi paused, and let all sink in. No one spoke and he could only imagine the expressions passing their faces. If only he could see—to get a tack on what they were thinking.

  “Sir,” Wyckoff began, “did you have something to do with the transporter malfunctions?”

  Geordi nodded. “Yes. I did. I can’t let him go beaming down into what could be such a touchy situation. You didn’t hear him when he talked about boarding the Klingon cruiser and searching for Riker. He’s not being rational, Wyckoff.”

  “With all due respect, sir,” Wyckoff said, “this is what I’d assume a Klingon agent would say.”

  Sweat broke out across Geordi’s forehead. He could feel it, and hoped it wasn’t seen. He avoided scratching his head nervously. He didn’t want to give Wyckoff any body-language cues that might compromise what he was saying.

  The security lieutenant hesitated a moment, then continued. “Commander, I do know Lieutenant Worf, and I do know you. But I also know Commander Data, and he is in command. It isn’t within my purview to decide that he should be replaced by you.”

  “I’m not fit to take command. You can see that. I won’t ask you to make that decision.” Geordi stepped forward, pointing to his chest. “Arrest me, Lieutenant. I wouldn’t ask you not to. But arrest Data too. Put us both in the brig and sort it out later. Let the captain do it. Let anyone else do it but us.” The engineer pressed himself forward again, until the proximity vest told him he was right in front of one of them. He hoped it was Wyckoff, or his flair for the dramatic would look farcical. “Lieutenant, if nothing else, ask Data why he thinks the captain is under duress. Ask him why he thinks Worf is a murderer. Ask, Lieutenant . . . and base your decision on what you hear.” Geordi stepped back and gestured his hands in a surrendering motion. “I’ll put my trust in your reason. I sure can’t trust Data’s.”

  “What kind of coward are you, Batok?” Urosk hissed at one of his men. They were both still choking. Picard himself was choking some, but noticed the Hidran looked especially depleted. They had changed filters in their masks and were breathing steadily, but Picard would have bet anything that this wasn’t what they’d expected at all. There weren’t many sandstone buildings on Hidra, to be sure.

  “I am inferior, sir,” Batok said, slumped over, coughing. The man was obviously exhausted. “I am sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Urosk muffled a gag with his ranting. “We were being held at bay by a woman—a very small woman—and all you have to say is you are sorry?”

  “I did stun her, sir. Had the other humans not appeared—”

  “I do not want your apologies, Batok, I want your perfection!”

  Removing his jacket, Picard snorted, “Is that all want? Perfection? You’ll need it, Urosk. You’ve assaulted Starfleet officers and managed to abduct the captain of a starship. The Federation will not play at this situation lightly.”

  “Silence from you, Picard!” Urosk growled, pointing his phaser. “You are the reason we are here. You—who would not listen to the truth.”

  “Truth?” Picard scoffed. “What truth? Your truth? All you seem to need to define truth is that you speak it.”

  “Silence!” Urosk exploded, then turned back to Batok.

  Urosk needed to be pushed—but not so hard that Picard would get himself killed in the pushing. Just hard enough so that he might give up whatever foolish plan he had. It was on this end that such work had to be done: there would be no help from the Enterprise. If La Forge couldn’t hear him, Picard was on his own in all this. Worf was weaponless, Crusher didn’t know what was going on . . . She would soon enough, though. On his way down the corridor Picard took notice of the two security guards. They had moved a bit—alive. They were obviously found by Barbara, and would—do what? Contact the ship? Unlikely that would prove fruitful. Something had obviously happened to Data—something that had caused him to cease thinking rationally. Or stop listening.

  Picard knew he should have seen this all coming. He’d thought something seemed strange about Data, and should have acted on that suspicion.

  He looked at his plush red jacket, now filthy with tan and yellow grit, and tossed it on the bench behind him. He mopped his brow and pulled on the collar of his turtleneck. Disappointed in himself, angry at the situation, Picard tried to focus his thoughts on what the Hidran were saying. Any information he could gain would be helpful.

  “I don’t expect my soldiers to act like fools!” Urosk barked.

  “She did have a phaser, sir, and—” Batok cut the end off his own sentence.

  Urosk backhanded him and the clapping sound of flesh against the plastic-like construct of the breathing mask echoed in the small room.

  Picard cleared his throat. Batok’s mask was intact and seemed to be functioning well. Obviously well manufactured. Could Worf’s blow to Zhad have been much harder than Urosk’s just now? Picard doubted it. Perhaps Zhad had killed himself.

  Wanting to blend away into the background for now, to see if he could get a fix on the attitudes he’d be dealing with, Picard lowered himself silently onto the bench along the wall. He looked about the room. Some of the dust from outside had settled on the floors and tables. Before its history as a base of operations/holding pen for the Hidran, it must have been a lab of some type. Nondescript computers stood along one wall and a great many tools and trays and jars of dirt were scattered on the tables. At one time they’d probably been neatly stacked. The Hidran were obviously not known for their housekeeping.

  Batok’s head was down. He slouched yet spoke loudly and clearly as possible through his mask. “Sir, if I may speak . . .”

  Stomping away—then back again, Urosk took on the posturing of an angry bull. If he had nostrils somewhere under that mask, they were flaring. “Shall you speak? I’m not even sure if you shall continue to live! There is the heart of my lunacy—indecision as to whether I should kill you rather than how I should!”

  Well, at least all captains were alike in some respects. Picard had never actually said anything like that to a member of his crew, but he could sympathize with the feeling.

  “I would only speak to please my captain,” Batok said.

  Urosk laughed. “Not possible, Batok. The sound of your voice is as grating as the dust in the air.”

  “Sir, I have been to the Klingons’ holding cell. I did not leave here solely to supply us with two weapons.”

  Urosk turned toward the younger, shorter Hidran who still had his eyes focused tightly on his own boots. Despite wishing to remain seated, something in the Hidran’s tone pulled Picard up. Thankfully they had not taken his Universal Translator, or all this talk might just have been a series of hisses and clicks.

&n
bsp; “Tell me what you must, Batok,” Urosk said intensely.

  The Hidran lieutenant looked up at his superior, returning the intensity with his eyes. “I have killed the ambassador’s murderer. The Klingon—Worf—I have watched him die at my own hand.”

  Picard rose forward slowly, but didn’t move any closer than that. He couldn’t if he’d wanted to—his spine, his legs, his jaw—all locked with the tightness of anger and fume.

  All that had happened until now suddenly seemed trivial. Worf was dead—tried and convicted by a jury of one.

  Chest tight, Picard balled his fists at his sides. He had let this entire predicament swing wildly out of hand . . .

  Time to bring it back in check.

  Urosk’s eyes became slivers. He was obviously smiling behind that blasted mask. “You have done well, Batok. How many of the others did you kill?”

  “Others?” Batok battled with himself—he obviously wanted to look away from his captain, but couldn’t.

  “Surely you didn’t only kill the Starfleet Klingon!” Urosk snapped.

  “Sir—I . . .”

  Picard watched Urosk stifle Batok with a glare. “Speak no more, Batok. You killed only one Klingon when you had the chance to kill them all.” He wheeled away toward the table behind him. On it he dropped the two communicators he’d collected. Together with Batok’s there were four. “You will redeem yourself, Batok, by joining these into a communicator that will reach our ship.”

  Batok said nothing, but slithered toward the table, obsequiously silent.

  Two steps forward and Picard was nearly on top of Urosk. He felt an urge to wrap his hands around the Hidran’s throat.

  Worf . . .

  “And what then, Captain?” Picard snapped. “What happens when you return to your ship?”

  Urosk towered over Picard. “We destroy the Klingons—in orbit, then on the planet,” he said frankly.

  “Why?” Picard spat bitterly. “What will this do? Why must hundreds die for your revenge?”

  There was a choking sound from Urosk that must have been a laugh. “Revenge? You know nothing of me, Picard. Batok acted on revenge. He is a young fool. I might have done the same for justice, but there is a grander plan at work here.” The Hidran captain still kept his phaser in his palm, pointed toward the floor. Picard glanced down at the weapon. Urosk noticed, and once again aimed up toward Picard’s chest. Had it been reset to stun?