FOREIGN FOES

by Dave Galanter

  Damn, he’d been stupid. He hadn’t rethought, hadn’t reconsidered his first assumptions, and it could mean their deaths. Had he even considered the idea that they were in the planet rather than on a ship, his entire course of action would have been different. Had he not started to destroy the machines, he and Deanna probably could have roamed peacefully until they found a way to the surface.

  Could have . . . but there was no going back.

  What was it Deanna had said about poor concept-formation? He’d never let that happen again.

  Up the next corridor, leaving the Rover trailing behind, Riker caught up with Deanna and they ran together evenly.

  “The old dog’s learned all my tricks. And it’s immune to the phaser,” he puffed out. “Try to put some distance between us and him. As soon as we have a corridor between us—”

  He coughed and stumbled, and she reached back to draw him along. “We can’t run forever, Will.”

  “I know,” he choked out. “I know.” His leg knew too. “We have to find that transporter room—or one like it! You run ahead—come back when you have one. I have an idea that might buy some time. If you don’t find it, just keep running.”

  “Will—”

  “I don’t want to hear it! That’s an order and I expect you carry it out, Commander!” He motioned up the corridor. “Now go!”

  She looked back a moment, then took off, and Riker realized just how slow a snail he’d become. He was dragging her down—she’d stay alive—find a way to the surface and inform the captain, if he didn’t become deadweight for both of them.

  As Deanna disappeared around the corner, Riker hobbled on and felt like that steak he’d wanted a few minutes earlier—raw and lifeless. Sweat dripped from his hair onto his cheeks and he smeared it away with an already soaked wrist. He looked back, listened, and heard the Rover still coming.

  And it would keep coming, and even if destroyed—there would be others.

  “There’s got to be a way to the surface,” Riker grunted, looking up the corridor to the corner Deanna’d turned. “She’ll make it even if I don’t,” he assured himself as he slowed even more. The pain in his leg wasn’t buying the “mythical” story anymore, and his gallop had become a deadly trot.

  He turned up the corridor, his limp showing. She was no where to be seen. The Rover could be heard behind him—a constant reminder.

  Hope had again become the myth, pain the reality. He had no more ideas to slow it down, as he’d assured Deanna. It would be on him in moments. He was tired, and wanted to sit and wait.

  “Will!”

  Her voice came from behind him—he’d passed her. How had he missed seeing a door? He spun around, pushing himself off balance as he stumbled toward the sound. She poked her head out a door that was nothing more than a slit in the wall.

  “Over here!”

  “Coming,” he grunted, and tried to push the pain away again.

  When he was close enough she pulled him in and the door closed behind them.

  She pushed the hair from her eyes and motioned around. “Recognize it?”

  He looked around, squinting at each corner, at the wall that was lights and panels. “We started from here,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath.

  Deanna nodded. “Either this room or one just like it.”

  He took in one long breath and straightened. “Here.” He pressed the phaser into her hand. “You take this. You’re going to buy us some time. Weld the door shut. If Rover breaks through, melt the ceiling and make it a wall.”

  “I’m not the best with a phaser,” she admitted.

  “Just aim and fire. Hit the wall and we’ll be fine!” Riker nodded toward the door. She aimed at the split between the doors, hesitated, then fired. As he worked over the console, trying to determine which way these people had invented the modern-day wheel that was teleportation, he felt the sparks from Deanna’s work fly. Alien metal was bubbling up, welding solid—he could hear it. He concentrated on his task, trying to ignore the orange nodules that spat forward before they fell to the ground cold.

  The air was getting hot as he ran his hand over the many different buttons and lights, unwilling to touch them. For now he was just trying to get a feel for the board. Intelligent beings tended to pattern things. The eye will look for structure in randomness . . . from constellations to buttons . . . and perhaps Riker could find a pattern here.

  To his left were a series of switches and what looked like a numeric keypad with symbols. Above that was a screen with what might have been a graph. It was unmoving, and had more symbols. He mopped his brow—the heat from the door was adding to his basic misery. After being gouged, bled, skewered, dehydrated, chased and exhausted . . . well, he should have realized that boiling was next.

  Booooom!

  A shudder jostled Riker against the console and he gripped the panel as best he could. The makeshift wall where the door had been glowed red, then cooled to silver-black.

  “Rover again!” Riker called to Deanna. “Melt more of the ceiling if you have to—keep ‘em out!”

  The whine of her phaser was the only response. He spun back to the console and looked hard. No manual. No ‘help’ key. No Starfleet touch-pads—just old fashioned buttons that seemed to be laughing at him as they kept their meanings hidden.

  He looked up at the graph. If that’s a zero . . . and that’s a zero as well . . . He looked from the graph to the keypad. A coordinate selector maybe?

  Maybes were damn risky where transporters were concerned. Accidents happened even when people knew what they were doing . . . guessing was . . .

  Boooom!

  Their only hope.

  Another bolt against the door. Rover was knocking—loudly. Riker could feel the heat from the blast, and then a wave of hot air and the scream of the phaser filled the room again.

  “Keep it up, Deanna!”

  He didn’t turn—his work was here, hers there. His only problem: where was “here”?

  Enter coordinate here, he thought, and activate here. He moved his hand from one place to another—there were only two main key sets—the rest of the panel was lights and indicators.What coordinate, though?

  It was getting hotter—the air savaged his skin and eyes. Deanna was melting more of the ceiling into a barrier and she was backed up against him.

  Focus! Focus! None of that mattered! Rover was scratching down the wall between them and there was no place left to run.

  This is zero he decided, touching the keys as if that confirmed his guess. But zero meant what? The planet’s surface? The planet’s core? The transporter room itself? Could be smack-dab into the middle of Rover’s dog house for all he knew. The coordinate could be for wherever they were taken from—which was two hundred meters in the air.

  Booooom! Booooom!

  Riker cringed instinctively and looked at the wall—Deanna was running out of ceiling.

  If they tried to escape they might die. If they stayed they surely would. The temperature of the room, the walls, the air . . . Riker was ready to lose consciousness. Breath now painful to his lungs, he held his chest with one hand, and the console with his other.

  “Get over here,” he yelled. “Stand by!”

  He hit the “zero” key three times and then jammed his fist onto the other key pad.

  BOOOOOM!

  The wall ruptured. Orange and red slivers hurled forward in a ball of flame. Riker felt the heat on his face—turned to Deanna, tried to cover her with his body—

  The world became molten—the explosion engulfed them—

  Pain was no myth. They were wrenched to the deck, and the universe closed dark around him.

  Riker’s agony was finally gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  AT FIRST IT WAS NIGHT—the blackness, the cool dryness of the air . . . A river of cold wind washed over him. A good feeling. Riker had thought he would never feel so cool again. Then he remembered the effect of the alien transporter . . . brightness returned to hi
s world, and paralysis lost its grip on him.

  I made it.

  Pain returned as well, and he almost welcomed the continuity—he had all his limbs, he could feel them.

  “Deanna . . .” He called out, probably more mentally than physically. He couldn’t be sure. “Are you all right?”

  Silence, and the distant howling of the wind, frightened him. He was in an eerie world of half-substance and half-feeling, of half-light and half-sound.

  He tried to flex his muscles and clear his throat. How frustrating—to be uncertain of that which was always so absolute—the control of his own body.

  “De-anna?” His voice cracked dryly.

  She groaned in response. She’d made it too.

  His eyes fluttered open and light pounded against him, too brightly. He yanked his arm up to shield his eyes, then rolled onto his stomach, allowing his eyes to open in the shade of his own frame.

  The rock was cool against his palms—grit and cold stone. He shuddered, chilled, and relished the feeling after so many hours of sweaty exhaustion.

  “Deanna—” He looked to his right and saw her lying a few feet away.

  “Give me a moment . . . I’m fine.” He nodded and lifted himself to his feet, using the incline of the rock face as a brace. This was where they’d found the sensor beacon—the same clump of rock and stone. Somewhere around here was a crushed flitter.

  Squinting into the bright day, Riker recognized the flowing Velexian fields in the distance. He tapped his combadge, then shook his arm awake. “Riker to Enterprise.”

  A hollow, empty frequency beeped back at him. He tapped it again.

  “Riker to . . . anyone.”

  Looking down, he saw Deanna was now shielding her eyes. He stretched his arm down to lift her up, give her balance. He was the weaker, yet had come around first . . . the effect must have to do with something other than just a physical paralysis.

  The communicator suddenly cracked with static, then came alive with a woman’s voice. “Halford here, sir! You just appeared on our scope!” The beautiful sound of another being.

  “Where are you?”

  “Looking for you, sir. In a shuttle. ETA to your location is three minutes.”

  Deanna pulled herself toward Riker and spoke into the communicator. “Good . . . have a medi-kit ready. Commander Riker is hurt.”

  “Acknowledged. Sir, mind if I ask where in hell you two’ve been?”

  Riker chuckled with the irony of that, and, still dizzy with adrenaline and blood loss, steadied himself against Deanna. “Lieutenant,” he said, looking from Deanna to the sky, “you’re awfully close. Except it was a bit hotter than hell.”

  The small combadge crackled, sputtered, then died under the weight of Urosk’s boot. Picard, both pleased and disgusted at the illogic of it, nearly smiled.

  Worf was alive. Alive and well and talking. But someone had died for him . . . another Klingon was dead, and only trouble could come of that.

  Suddenly, rather than turning to Batok and taking his anger out on him, Urosk twisted toward Picard. “He will not live forever! I will see to that.”

  Picard held his ground, neither pressing forward nor retreating from Urosk’s tirade. “Is that your only goal, Captain? Would you give up your entire planet’s life to avenge the death of one?”

  Urosk crunched his heel into the damaged communicator as he stepped closer to Picard. Towering over the Starfleet captain, he ground angry words through his breathing mask. “I am acting for the preservation of my planet! You are too blind to see it, Picard, but this entire string of events was meant to destroy us. The Klingons want war—and it is war I will avert!”

  “How? By beginning one? None of this is any help, Urosk,” Picard said. “You can’t stop a war by waging one. Not when the odds are against you.”

  “No, Picard, you are wrong.” The Hidran captain turned away and walked toward the table in the center of the room. “The Klingons can be stopped. They have forgotten what a war with the Hidran means.” He pressed a button on the tabletop and a spigot rose from the center as a sink opened into the counter. Water began to pour from the tap and Urosk ran his hands and arms under the flow. He shuddered, perhaps with pleasure, and then turned back to Picard. “They will be reminded what a war with us would mean.”

  “That’s a gamble, Urosk. Perhaps they will be reminded of a need to eradicate your threat rather than avoid it.”

  “Silence, Picard! Unlike you I am not riddled with indecision! I know what I will do, and what it will mean. I may die in the process, but the Klingons’ heartless empire will know that killing me wasn’t worth the price. We will destroy them here, and in orbit, and perhaps one will live to actually tell the tale.” Urosk stomped back to Batok at the head of the counter. “Not only have you dishonored yourself by killing but one Klingon, you have embarrassed yourself by killing the wrong one! You will take the remainder of the Federation communicators, as well as our own, and find a way to break through this transmission jammer of Picard’s. This may begin to make up for your errors of the past, Lieutenant . . . but fail me again and I’ll have your life.”

  Stepping forward now, voice firm, Picard hoped to still find some way to talk the Hidran out of such a reckless plan. “The Enterprise will not allow you to destroy the Klingons, Urosk.” That, of course, was just a wild hope. He didn’t know what the Enterprise would do. If Data had been damaged, and if La Forge was unable to relieve the android, then perhaps the Enterprise was now acting not to stand in the Hidran’s way, but to further their cause.

  Urosk yanked his Starfleet phaser up and aimed at Picard. “I do not want to kill you, Picard. I do not need the wrath of the Federation to complicate things for Hidra . . . but be assured—interfere with me and I will shatter your limbs to dust, and leave you to live in undying pain.”

  There was no difficulty in reading Urosk’s expression or tone. He was quite serious, but no threat could stand in Picard’s way. The Hidran had to be stopped, and if that meant pain or death, then that is what it meant.

  Subtlety would have to be his weapon, Picard decided, as the Hidran collected all their communications devices on the center lab table. Every few moments one of them would go to the sink and douse their hands in the tap water. Then they would drink, with difficulty due to the awkwardness of their breathing masks, and return to work.

  The dust trick would not work again. Too obvious, and too dangerous now.

  Picard watched as they pried the delta-shield covers off the three remaining Starfleet communicators. At least this was delaying them—the white-noise transmission blanket was still intact. How long could he count on that?

  Time to act.

  “You use a lot of water, Urosk,” Picard said, making his way slowly around the far end of the table.

  Urosk looked up from his survey of the work. “You no longer have concerns, Picard, except the preservation of your own life.”

  “Water is a scarce commodity on this planet, Captain,” Picard continued, edging closer to the tap. “You’d be wise to conserve it.”

  The Hidran captain’s phaser came up and he stepped toward Picard. “Move back, Captain. I care more for comfort than conservation right now. You are dangerously close to interfering with me, Picard.”

  Picard shook his head. “Actually, I was only going to suggest you turn the water up. That red button is hot water—run that and the room will fill with steam after a while. I believe that is what you want. It will save you from constantly having to drink and soak.”

  “Why?” Urosk asked, squinting at Picard. “Why attempt to help us? Why make us comfortable?”

  Picard pressed the red button and the tap spat a thick bar of hot water into the sink. Steam rose to the ceiling and slowly worked to fill the small room. “You have much to learn about my people, Urosk,” he said, and hoped that would suffice as an answer.

  The Hidran captain jabbed his phaser in Picard’s direction. “That’s no answer.” Urosk was no fool.


  “Let’s just say,” Picard said, thinking quickly, “that your comfort seems to be in my best interests right now . . . wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Will!” Beverly Crusher ran toward the hall’s main doors and scooped the first officer out from under the guard who was helping him in. “What’s happened to you?”

  “Where’s the captain?” Riker demanded.

  With Deanna’s help, Beverly lowered him into a chair near one of the tables that had been forgotten in the storm that followed dinner. She knelt down in front of him and flipped open her medical case. She was a sight for sore . . . legs.

  “The captain is still with the Hidran,” she said, distracted by his injuries. She flipped open a plasma-concentrate hypo and injected it straight into his calf. “How did you manage to mangle your leg like this?”

  “Luck. Tell me what’s going on. Halford here filled us in up to the captain being taken,” Riker said tiredly, but with anger in his voice. “How the hell did all this happen?”

  Beverly looked up to Deanna. “You all right?”

  Nodding, but obviously exhausted, Deanna mumbled, “Fine.”

  “Doctor . . .” Riker prodded. She injected him with another hypospray and he flinched. “Hey!”

  “Electrolytes. You need them. That and a good two day rest.”

  “What I need, Doctor, is answers.”

  Crusher flipped open her tricorder and mumbled into the readings. “Worf is on his way.”

  “Is there anything to eat or drink?” Deanna asked.

  Halford nodded her auburn-haired head. “I think so,” she said. “Permission to find some food, sir?”

  Riker nodded quickly. “Granted—double time!”

  Her medical tricorder chirping, Crusher took a moment to run the scanner over Deanna. Riker knew what she would find: dehydration, fatigue. They were a mess. Riker didn’t have a sleeve or pant leg left, and Deanna was sleeveless as well.