FOREIGN FOES

by Dave Galanter

Urosk’s grasp tightened.

  “Are you going to kill me now?” Picard asked tightly through his closing airway. “Is this Hidran justice? The murder of an innocent man?”

  The Hidran’s face was a twist of angry flesh. Green eyes blazed as he yanked his phaser up to rest on Picard’s left cheek.

  The heat of it—the throbbing energy . . . Picard needed to slip his one good arm up, get that phaser. Maybe he’d die in the action, but even if there was the slightest chance—it had to be taken. If it was within his power, this conflict could not leave the plant.

  As the muscles in his left arm strained, Picard brought a fist up to Urosk’s arm and slapped the phaser away.

  The Hidran’s fingers tightened around Picard’s throat and Urosk dragged him toward the back of the room.

  “I will wait no longer,” Urosk hissed, releasing Picard with a shove toward the back wall.

  Picard recovered his balance as Urosk played with the settings on his Starfleet phaser, and tried to find some means of escape. There were two Hidran soldiers on either side. He saw Urosk thumb the phaser setting higher—heard it hum as it built up the surge of power, ready to be fired.

  Urosk wouldn’t get the satisfaction of fear from the captain’s eyes. Picard would stand tall and earn a grudging respect for the Federation by dying without a flinch.

  The Hidran captain aimed—and fired.

  Orange flame spat forward and singed Picard’s face. The beam enveloped the wall behind. The stone disintegrated, collapsing into vapor and dust and rubble. Shards of gravel snapped against his back and arms, and he crouched to protect himself as the wall came down around him.

  Another rumble shook the room—the ceiling cracked and threatened to fall in on them and the side walls lost their form as they toppled in.

  “Move! Everyone move! The Earther first!” Urosk choked over the dust, but endured and pushed Picard through the hole that had been wall. Beyond was cool air and an open alley between two buildings.

  Picard stumbled through the dust, his arm hot with pain. He saw his moment for escape, and took it. He crouched low—rolled to the left through the rising dust he knew the Hidran would not venture into.

  He choked, coughed through the pain and over the stone, as he tried to push toward fresh air. Before he could press further, long fingers coiled around his limp arm and pulled him up. He gasped in bitter pain, but covered any outcry with a grunt.

  He twisted angrily, saw he was in the grip of some Hidran soldier—Batok—and tried to wrench his broken arm free of the alien’s massive grip.

  Thwock—thwock-thwock—thwock.

  Suddenly the Hidran began to convulse. First a small shudder, then a series of trembles as pockets of moist blood opened on the Hidran’s tunic. The sound of wet flesh slapping against itself filled the air.

  Thwock-thwock. Thwock.

  The Hidran fell forward, dragging Picard to the rubble with him.

  Dead—the Hidran was dead.

  “No one move!”

  The voice—deep and angry.

  With great pain Picard managed to pull his arm free. He rolled away and looked up . . .

  Captain Kadar stood, some kind of metal hand weapon aimed out toward the Hidran behind Picard.

  “Where is Urosk?” demanded Kadar. “And where is the animal that killed my warrior!”

  “What the hell was that!” Riker spun toward the rumbling sound—toward the room where the Hidran were.

  Worf turned an instant after him. “They must have broken through the back wall!”

  “Get back to the main hall!” Riker ordered Beverly and Barbara. “Deanna, you’re with us.” He aimed toward the main hall and began to run, Worf and Deanna at his side. “I thought you said they wouldn’t try that,” he grumbled to Worf.

  As they ran, Worf shrugged. “I believe I said I would not try it.”

  “Okay,” Riker huffed, suddenly realizing he was running on his supposedly bad leg. “We assume they’re outside rather than crushed under the rubble. Deanna and I’ll take to the roof. How many people do we have up there?”

  “Five,” Worf said.

  They all stopped at the entrance to the main hall. Riker looked into the hall, saw a few of Barbara’s security, then turned back to Worf. “I want five more waiting inside, in case the Hidran decide to fall back. Give Halford five and have her come around the eastside of the building, and you take five and come ‘round the westside.”

  Worf nodded. “Understood.”

  “This is our chance to get the captain back,” Riker said as he turned toward the stairway that led to the roof. “Let’s not blow it.”

  “Stop this!” Picard stood, blocking Kadar’s direct view of Urosk. “No more!”

  Kadar, and the three other Klingons who had taken positions a few meters behind him, were all carrying sophisticated projectile-firing chemical combustion rifles. Each of them had a Hidran target, and each of the Hidran, Picard assumed, had a Klingon one.

  Everyone had some sort of cover as well, behind a wall corner or the rubble from the fallen wall.

  Stand-off.

  The Klingon weapons—with no active power source—were difficult to scan for. Firearms of this type were still used by some, for sport usually.

  There was no sport here.

  Obviously the Klingons had planned ahead and hidden the weapons. Amazing—that Kadar had been kept in his make-shift cell for so long. Picard knew they couldn’t be kept there forever . . . now the timing might be used to his advantage.

  “Stay out of this, Picard!” Kadar stomped forward aggressively.

  With the four remaining Hidran loosely around him, and the dead one at his feet, Picard took a step toward the Klingons. “Lay down your weapons! All of you!”

  Glancing back Picard saw only the tops of three Hidran. Urosk came up behind Picard, guarding himself from the Klingons with Picard’s small frame.

  “Yes,” Urosk called, his voice rough from the dust, “lay down your weapons or Picard dies.”

  “No!” Picard spun around and faced Urosk. Despite his arm throbbing with blood, swollen and numb, anger nearly clenched his right fist. “I will not be used as an ongoing excuse for murder! End this—now! You have each encountered loss needlessly. Talk to each other—settle differences as civilized beings.”

  Urosk aimed deliberately at him and called to Kadar. “I do not care what he says! Do as I say or he d—”

  A meter behind Urosk the ground exploded into dust and clods of dirt. The whine of a phaser snapped the air and Picard looked up just long enough to see Riker firing from the roof of the main hall building.

  Seizing the moment of distraction, Picard swung his good arm around and knocked the phaser from Urosk’s grasp. The weapon went flying and Urosk belted Picard out of the way as they both scrambled to retrieve it.

  Kadar took aim at Urosk and fired. Shells ricocheted off the ground. Picard jumped forward and forced the Hidran captain down, out of the line of fire. They rolled onto his bad arm but continued to grapple for the phaser.

  Wincing relief as he tilted off his broken bones, Picard gripped the weapon and kicked Urosk in the stomach, then the face.

  The Hidran captain crumpled away, grunting in fierce pain.

  With effort, Picard pulled himself up. He could feel a trickle of blood run down his right arm. He made the break worse with every move, but had to ignore that for now as best he could. He aimed the phaser at Urosk and took a step back, making sure he was out of assault range by the Hidran’s long arms.

  “Excellent, Picard!” Kadar laughed. “Now, the Hidran will lower their weapons—”

  “If we die, we die in battle!” Urosk dragged himself off the ground and into a crouched position. “Not helpless at the hands of executioners!”

  “As you executed two of our men?” Kadar bellowed.

  Picard glanced up at Riker again and nodded sharply. Another bolt of phaser-lightening sizzled into the ground—this time in front of Kadar.


  “No more!” Picard shouted. “It’s over!”

  “Because you say it is over, Picard?” Urosk bellowed. “Will you kill us if we choose to exercise our right to kill one another?”

  “You have no such right!” Phaser in hand, Picard managed to keep pivoting between Urosk and Kadar, letting both know neither had an ally right now. “You cannot have the right to take away someone else’s right to life.”

  Tall frame shaking with fury, Urosk rose to his full height. “Do you not believe in justice? Does a mass-murderer have the right to his own life?”

  “No,” Picard snapped, “there is an obvious difference between the blatant initiation of violence and the use of defensive force—”

  “Retaliation is defense!” Urosk roared.

  “Retaliation for what?” Picard shot bitterly. “A crime you cannot prove? Upon individuals who did not commit it? Is that your justice, Urosk?” He spun around to face Kadar. “Or yours? Your cultures may suggest that a son pays for the sins of his father, but who are you to force that upon others without their consent? How can you assign to all Hidran the punishment only one should receive?” He turned again, backed up, and faced both as best he could. “Both of you are guilty of that crime—acting outside your purview because of some misplaced indignation.”

  “They killed our ambassador!” Urosk shouted, pointing at Kadar.

  “There is no ‘they’!” Picard thundered. “‘They’s’ do not exist! Groups neither have rights nor shared responsibility upon which judgments can be meted out! There is insufficient proof to suggest one Klingon killed your ambassador, let alone the entire race.”

  “There is more than enough,” Urosk growled, “to see that you act to protect your Starfleet Klingon!”

  Stepping into the circle of angry combatants—from where Picard had not noticed—Worf answered for himself as he stepped toward the center. “I need no protection. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Worf’s timing was impeccable, but Picard noticed he only held a knife, no phaser, and that might add to the tension rather than quell it.

  “So says every murderer, Klingon,” Urosk spat.

  Picard could see the Hidran’s muscles tense and knew Urosk was in want of a weapon.

  One of the Hidran moved toward Worf from behind his barrier of rubble. Picard noticed and gestured to Riker.

  Another phaser shot from above, this time just centimeters in front of the Hidran aggressor. The ground plumed up, mushrooming into a cloud of stone and grit, and the Hidran collapsed forward, choking and sputtering. His weapon fell and he quickly scrambled for it before retreating back behind the collapsed wall.

  “You will hear me out,” Worf said evenly. “Ambassador Zhad was not murdered. His death was a twist of fate—”

  “It is not fate that is twisted—” Urosk barked.

  Picard brought up his phaser. “Hear him out.”

  “There is a human saying,” Worf said, and drew his knife. “Actions speak louder than words.”

  The blade sparkled in the setting sun . . . as Worf thrust it into his gut and twisted.

  “Worf!” Picard leapt forward, astonished, as Worf pulled out the knife and let it drop to his feet. What was he doing? What kind of impulsive act of honor had motivated this?

  “Riker,” Picard called up the side of the building, “I want Crusher here on the double!” He turned back to Worf and demanded, “Why?”

  “No doctor—no help!” Worf grunted, crushing the wound with his hand as blood began to soak his uniform tunic. “The knife even the Hidran will recog nize as Klingon—the blade specially made to bring slow and certain death.”

  “You have a Klingon fool for an officer, Picard,” Urosk laughed. “His enemies need only wait for him to kill himself.”

  Worf shook his head. “No, I have not,” he said, obviously pained as blood soaked between the fingers of his hand. “I have eaten a loaf of the bread that killed your ambassador. That shall save my life.”

  Ignoring Kadar and Urosk, Picard pressed closer to his security chief. “Explain,” he ordered.

  “This planet’s flora is artificial,” Worf said. He shifted his weight, but had trouble keeping his balance. “The grain is machinery—on the molecular level, with a purpose . . . healing the host’s body.”

  “And yet it killed Zhad,” Urosk spat. “With your reprogramming, no doubt!”

  Warily, Worf shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “Zhad died because the grain treated his implanted mask as foreign. It was trying to heal him—” He stumbled forward, fell to his knees.

  Beverly rushed up from wherever Worf had come, her medical case in hand.

  “Doctor . . .” Picard pointed to Worf, then glanced quickly at Kadar and Urosk and their respective soldiers again. “If anyone takes aggressive action, Riker has my orders to fire at will.”

  The captain looked up and got a nod to the affirmative from Riker.

  “Dammit, Worf,” Beverly Crusher said as she dropped to a kneel beside the Klingon, “what are you trying to prove?”

  “The grain . . .” Worf said weakly, “it will restore me as called for in my DNA.”

  “Is this true?” Picard asked in a hushed tone.

  “We’re not at all certain of all our facts,” Beverly said, her voice edged with anger and anxiety. “We determined it was the cause of Zhad’s death and Geordi’s blindness, and it helped repair Riker’s injured leg, but we don’t know how long it lasts or just what it can and can’t do.”

  Urosk kept his position, but folded his arms and growled, “Spare us this charade, Picard. An elaborate act for our benefit, but your doctor will now cure the Klingon and he will claim it is this bread—”

  “No!” Worf yelled, lifting up the knife from his feet. “The doctor will not tend me,” he rumbled and shoved her off.

  “Worf!” Beverly stumbled but wouldn’t back away. “You could die!”

  Picard pulled her back. “Let him, Doctor.”

  Beverly twisted toward him. Outrage arched her brows. “Captain—”

  “No,” Picard said. “It’s what he wants. Death is what they all want.” He released Beverly and pushed himself toward the Hidran, toward Urosk. “You want death, don’t you, Captain? You want to die.”

  “If I must, for my people,” Urosk said gravely. Picard nodded bitterly and shook his phaser in front of the Hidran. “And I know you think this will help your people. You’re certain of it, in fact. As certain as Kadar is that all Hidran are insane with murderous rage. As certain as Worf is that his life will be saved by a loaf of bread!”

  “Nothing can save his life, so long as I am alive,” Urosk growled.

  “Ah,” Picard snapped back, “but if he is saved by that grain, then your entire premise fails, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it! And you have killed for no reason. How many of your people have died because of such erroneous rationalizations? How many will continue to die?”

  Anger pounding in his heart, he pivoted to Kadar.

  “How many of your people have been killed for the same reason? And how many,” he finished slowly, “have you both killed yourselves?”

  Worf grunted again in pain, fell onto his side, propped himself up with the hand that had been covering his gut, then held up his knife as Beverly tried to approach. “Stay back, Doctor.”

  “Shall I stun him?” Picard asked of Kadar. “Shall I force Lieutenant Worf to submit to treatment and save his life for him?” He spun around and paced toward Urosk. “Should I hand you the phaser and let you kill him, even though your entire reason for hating him may be totally false?”

  Visibly shaken and surprised, Urosk looked from. Worf to Picard. “I do not care what you do, and if the Klingons wish to engage us, why should you care?”

  “Because,” Picard said as he angrily marched toward the Hidran, “you’re better than all of this. You’re better than wavering uncertain on a precipice of illogical un-thought. You’re better than some animal who acts on instinct. You’re better tha
n you drive yourselves to be, and I, for one, detest seeing people wallow in the muck of their own subjective whim.” He held up his phaser to Urosk. “If this is what you want—if death is what you covet—then tell me! Tell me you don’t care about the sustenance of your people’s lives, and I will leave this planet . . . Tell me! And I will leave you with the tool of your own destruction—your irrational hate.”

  “I care for the sustenance of my people—” Urosk said.

  “No, you don’t,” Picard said, almost chuckling in irony. “You don’t care whether you were right or wrong—whether anything you believe is right or wrong. You act on what you feel is right, and don’t care to compare that with reality. And if your feeling is opposed to reality, it’s reality that gives way.”

  “That is a lie!” Urosk thundered.

  “Here,” Picard said, closing the final steps between himself and the Hidran captain. “Take my phaser.” He set the level and stretched out his hand to Urosk. “Take it. Murder me—an innocent man—because you feel I might have ordered Worf to kill your ambassador.”

  Awestruck, Urosk just stood there.

  “Take it!”

  “I . . . I don’t think that,” Urosk said.

  “Take it! Kill me!” Picard pressed his phaser into Urosk’s chest, handle first. “What you think is irrelevant—there was no reasoning involved when you accused Worf—why do you need a reason to accuse me?”

  “You are not Klingon—”

  “There are no Klingons!” Picard shouted. “There are only individuals, with biases, yes—with values, yes—but there is no such thing as collective volition! A being—any sentient being—is not some mass of genetic characteristics, all interchangeable and acting under one racial mind. People form their own opinions, right or wrong, and act on those opinions—right or wrong. You’ve been forming yours improperly, Urosk, so why stop now?” He pressed the phaser harder into the Hidran captain’s breast-bone. “Kill me, or kill Worf before he proves you wrong. Act on your emotion if it’s all that matters.”

  Picard lifted Urosk’s palm and pressed the phaser into it until the Hidran’s fingers closed around it.

  “Kill him, Captain,” Picard said. “Fulfill your adopted Klingon heritage and embrace the irrational hate that the Klingon Empire itself is coming to reject!” He turned to the Klingon commander. “And then, Kadar, you can kill Urosk for Zhad’s actions, and for Batok’s.”