POWER HUNGRY

by Howard Weinstein

  “Yes, sir. Please stand by.” He stood and looked at his host. “Thank you for your time, Doctor. I found my visit quite enlightening.”

  “If you and your captain have any more questions, feel free to ask. I can’t answer everything, but I’ll answer what I can. Oh, and don’t forget to ask the captain if I can see those files on weather-related projects.”

  Data nodded, then tapped his communicator again. “Transporter room, this is Lieutenant Commander Data. Ready to beam up—energize.”

  Riker watched as Data’s form sparkled and took solid shape in the transporter chamber. The android stepped off the platform. “Did you acquire any useful information?” the first officer asked.

  “Quite a bit, Commander,” Data replied.

  “Good. I’ll look forward to hearing about it.”

  The door hissed open. Undrun entered from the corridor and Data headed for the bridge. The ambassador was bundled up against what he still perceived as arctic temperatures inside the starship. Riker felt the involuntary prickle of his neck hairs—Undrun’s presence was all it took to boost his blood pressure.

  “What’s the delay, Commander Riker?” Undrun demanded.

  “Delay? I was waiting for—” Riker caught himself, closed his eyes for a second, and took a deep breath. “Never mind.” He motioned the diminutive envoy onto the platform, then took his own place—on the far side of the chamber. Neither looked at the other. “Energize,” said Riker.

  “If that so-called storage facility isn’t cleaned up—” The hum of the transporter swallowed Undrun’s voice.

  Seconds later Undrun’s voice regained substance at the same rate as his reassembled body. “—I simply will not agree to handing these supplies over.”

  They had materialized inside the depot this time, midway between the building’s airlock and Supervisor Chardrai’s office. Hands on hips, Riker looked down at Undrun and made an unsuccessful attempt to smooth the aggravated edge in his voice. “Ambassador, at least give the man a chance to show us something other than the inside of his office.”

  “It’s not my fault our first inspection was interrupted by a terrorist bombing,” Undrun sniffed.

  They walked briskly to the supervisor’s office, where Chardrai was waiting for them. The same guard stood at his post just inside the door. Chardrai greeted them curtly. “Gentlemen, if you’re ready, I’ll give you that tour of the facility now.”

  “Will we be safe?” Undrun wanted to know.

  “The place is as secure as we can make it. If you’ll come this way . . .” Chardrai led the visitors back out to the corridor, then through a metal door to a caged-in catwalk suspended high over the depot floor five levels below. The guard trailed a few paces behind. This passage, with heavy grating for its floor and open-mesh sides and ceiling, was connected to a network of similar walkways winding through the warehouse’s cavernous interior, with ramps, ladders, and freight elevators linking upper and lower storage platforms and sections. There were few solid walls and floors, lending the place a skeletal look.

  “Down there is where we’ll keep the seed,” Chardrai said, pointing to the floor below. “We’ll—”

  “Enterprise to Commander Riker.” The voice was Captain Picard’s, and it came from the communicator on Riker’s chest.

  “Excuse me, Supervisor,” Riker said. He activated his comm channel. “Riker here. Go ahead, sir.”

  “We’re picking up an indeterminate number of Nuaran vessels at the edge of sensor range.”

  “Intent?”

  “Unknown as yet, Number One.”

  “I’ll beam back up, Captain.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “But if the ship could come under attack, I should be there.”

  “Are you saying Mr. Worf and I are incapable of handling a few Nuaran interceptors without you?”

  “Not at all, sir. It’s just that—”

  “Without the element of surprise, it’s unlikely the Nuarans pose any danger to the ship, Number One. I just wanted you apprised of the situation in case we do come under attack and we can’t beam you up for the moment.”

  “Captain,” Riker said, “their pattern is to strike quickly and flee. Any combat situation is likely to be of brief duration.”

  “Lieutenant Worf agrees with your assessment, Number One, and we’re taking the necessary precautions.

  “Make sure you protect those cargo ships!” Undrun said, leaning into Riker’s chest to make sure he could be heard.

  “We will, Mr. Ambassador,” Picard said firmly.

  Riker was still concerned. “I’d be more comfortable back up there, sir.”

  “You’ve got a mission to accomplish, Commander Riker.”

  “Very well. But keep me posted.”

  “Affirmative. Enterprise out.”

  Chardrai, who had remained silent during the exchange, arms folded tightly across his chest, now spoke.

  “If you’re ready, Commander . . .”

  “We are quite ready, Supervisor,” Riker said. “Lead on.”

  Chardrai took him and Undrun through a passage bridging two platforms. Below them was a straight fifty-foot drop to the basement floor. Though little activity could be seen from their vantage point, the mechanical noises of motors and chains and pulleys echoed and creaked through the girders and grates that were this building’s bones and sinew. Undrun’s habitual bluster seemed tamed for the moment by a fear of falling; he kept a steady grip on the catwalk’s railing.

  “How old a facility is this?” Riker asked.

  “About thirty years,’ the Thiopan manager said. “The bomb damage is the first time it’s ever needed structural repairs. Pretty solid, overall.”

  “Have those repairs been made yet?” asked Undrun.

  Chardrai gave him a disbelieving stare. “It hasn’t even been a day.”

  “The Federation has made a major investment in this shipment of relief supplies. What if other bombings damage other parts of your warehouse? How do I know that investment will be safe?”

  “As I said, we do the best we can. If your Federation would help us control the terrorists who are doing the damage—”

  “We can’t do that,” Riker said. “Our laws are very strict when it comes to interfering in the affairs of other worlds.”

  Chardrai grunted mockingly. “That’s what the Nuarans told us.”

  “Closing at high speed, Captain,” Commander Data reported. “Five vessels this time.”

  Picard sat calmly in his seat. “Hailing frequencies, Mr. Worf.”

  “Open, Captain.”

  “Enterprise to Nuaran vessels. This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard. We request communication in the interest of avoiding further hostilities.”

  Worf frowned. “Captain, I suggest that we raise shields and arm weapons systems, in view of the Nuarans’ previous actions.”

  “Patience, Lieutenant. Raise shields, weapons on standby. I hope we won’t need them.” Picard repeated his message.

  “No response, sir,” Worf said.

  “They are still closing, Captain,” Data said, scanning his console. “Course—evasive.”

  Once more, Picard thought. “Enterprise to Nuaran vessels. I repeat, we are on a peaceful mission, and we request communication with you.” Picard drew in a breath of frustration. “Lieutenant Worf, go to yellow alert. Arm phasers and lock on targets.”

  “Tracking lock engaged on all five vessels, sir. Awaiting your order.”

  Picard leaned forward in his chair. “Range, Mr. Data?”

  “Thirty thousand kilometers . . . twenty . . .”

  “Optimum range, sir,” Worf said.

  “I’m aware of that, Lieutenant,” Picard said, unperturbed.

  On the big viewscreen, the five Nuaran spacecraft had grown from flitting pinpoints to sleek harbingers of death. Three ships peeled out of their ever-changing formation and swung wide around the Enterprise, then dived toward the freighters trailing behind while the other two intruders
cartwheeled toward the starship.

  “Hold your fire,” Picard said calmly. His gaze never wavered from the on-screen image of the enemy ships, closing, closing, swerving and swooping like acrobats.

  Worf tensed over the phaser controls, his warrior’s muscles coiled for battle.

  The ships moved closer, filling the viewscreen, rushing like mad birds of prey, then speeding past the Enterprise and off into space without firing a shot. There was an audible release of held breath on the starship bridge.

  Geordi shook his head. “Playing chicken with a starship?”

  Data flashed a quizzical look over his shoulder. “Imitating barnyard fowl?”

  “An old earth game involving foolish dares,” Geordi explained.

  “As I understand it,” Troi said, “there is a serious purpose to this game—to test the nerve and resolve of a potential opponent.”

  “That’s right,” Geordi said. “Make the other guy commit himself, and maybe force him into making a fatal mistake.”

  Data’s brows arched. “Intriguing premise. What is the proper response?”

  “Making a first move,” said Picard, “that could also be the final move. Enterprise to away team.”

  “Riker here, sir. Trouble?”

  “Affirmative. Nuaran interceptors have reentered our orbital quadrant. No shots fired yet.”

  “We’re fine where we are, sir. We still have more to see. We’ll stand by.”

  “Very well. Picard out. Mr. Data, any signs of the Nuarans?”

  “No, sir. They have gone out of sensor range again.”

  Worf growled deep in his throat. “They’ll be back.”

  “The Nuarans weren’t exactly happy to go when Protector Stross broke those trade ties,” Supervisor Chardrai told Riker and Undrun as they watched five overhead winches perform an intricate ballet, transferring storage containers across the depot’s wide central bay. The hydraulic arms were anchored somewhere up in the dark rafters, with silver cables spinning down like spider’s silk.

  “How did most Thiopans feel about the Nuarans?” Riker asked.

  Chardrai shrugged. “They were robbing our planet and leaving garbage behind. Friends don’t do that,” he said simply. “Let me take you down to where we plan to store the Federation supplies.”

  Riker and Undrun followed the Thiopan to the end of the walkway, where an elevator cage dangled in a latticework shaft. The guard lagged behind, mumbling into his wristband communication device.

  “Jeldavi,” Chardrai called, “what’s the delay?”

  “No delay, Supervisor. Just checking in.” The guard joined them in the lift. But before he could clang the safety gate shut, another pair of guards trotted toward them from an intersecting passageway.

  “Going down?” the taller of the two called.

  “Down,” said Jeldavi, holding the gate half open. The other two stepped in and muttered a thank-you. With a jolt, the car began its descent.

  Undrun peered down and turned colors when he saw that the grilled floor panels afforded a sightline all the way down the shaft.

  Riker noticed, and tried not to enjoy the moment. “Just don’t look.”

  Suddenly the elevator screeched to halt between levels, staggering Riker, Undrun, and Chardrai, but not the trio of guards, each of whom had braced himself with one hand and taken out palm-sized spray bottles with the other. Before Riker could react, the guards squirted a heavy mist in the faces of the other three. The substance had an immediate effect, and Riker, the envoy, and Supervisor Chardrai collapsed in a tangle of limbs.

  Jeldavi, the guard from the supervisor’s office, restarted the lift and took it down to the basement level, where pink vapor lamps cast eerie shadows through the support struts. He jammed the control lever to cut power, bringing the car to a jouncing halt, then threw open the gate. He turned to the taller of his two companions. “Rudji, get the wagon. Ligg, tie up Riker.” Within seconds, the tall guard came scurrying back with a molded cargo box on top of a wheeled platform. They lifted Riker, now bound tightly hand and foot, and dumped him into the container. Rudji was about to slam the lid when Jeldavi lurched forward and reached inside. He snatched the Starfleet insignia from Riker’s chest.

  “What’s that?” asked Ligg.

  “It’s a communicator. I saw him use it to talk to his ship.” Jeldavi hurled the communicator across the warehouse. It bounced and skittered, coming to a rest somewhere in the shadows.

  “Okay. Close it.”

  Rudji and Ligg complied, latching the cargo box on all four corners.

  “Go! Now!” Jeldavi’s partners started the cart rolling, and he ran behind. They found a darkened corridor and made a right-angle turn, reaching a wall with a sturdy steel hatch. The massive lock had already been jimmied. Jeldavi jumped ahead and swung it open. The other two rolled their captive into a service tunnel leading away from the storage depot. Jeldavi released the lock and closed the heavy hatch behind him. The lock clicked into place, resuming its intended function, leaving no trace of the three Sojourners, or their hostage, as they made their escape.

  Lieutenant Worf’s prediction about the Nuarans’ return soon came true. The same five interceptors hurtled toward the Enterprise, while the starship held its position, making no overt moves, either offensive or defensive. This time the Nuarans cut loose with a barrage of torpedoes, all but one of them aimed at the cargo ships. The torpedoes detonated, but the Enterprise deflectors held firm against the onslaught.

  Once again the Nuaran ships retreated at high speed following their sortie. And once again Picard sent pro forma messages after them, peaceable in substance but cautionary in subtext. Picard was a man who valued subtlety, but not at the price of clarity. There could be no mistaking his meaning: further harassment would not be tolerated.

  Once again the Nuaran spacecraft ignored all hails. And they regrouped for another approach.

  Picard crossed his arms over his chest. He knew these adversaries obeyed no rules. Their unpredictability added an unsettling element of danger to the situation. More than once they’d demonstrated their willingness to open fire without provocation. They had refused to respond to repeated requests for communication. And it was quite clear they were not going to disappear of their own volition. Jean-Luc Picard was unusually slow to anger, and he preferred not to utilize the great firepower of the Enterprise. But enough was enough. He had ships and a crew to protect, and a mission to complete.

  “Captain,” Data said. “The Nuaran interceptors have just come back within sensor range.”

  “Here we go again,” Geordi said.

  “In this competition known as chicken,” Data said, “are there strategies to enhance one’s chance of winning?”

  “Timing,” said Picard. “Not just the right move, but the right move at the right time . . . position of Nuaran ships, Mr. Data?” Picard asked.

  “Seventy thousand kilometers and closing.”

  Picard leaned forward, concentration masking his emotions. “Mr. LaForge, increase the distance between the Enterprise and the cargo drones by ten percent.”

  “Sir?”

  “Make it appear they’re drifting away from our shield protection.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Mr. Worf,” Picard continued, “establish and maintain phaser lock on all five targets. Geordi, prepare to drop shield protection around the cargo drones for exactly one-point-two-five seconds, on my mark. Program to resume full shield coverage after that time. Worf, synchronize your phaser controls with Geordi’s shields. Simultaneous with resumption of shield protection, I want phasers to fire at all five targets. Understood?”

  Both officers answered in the affirmative and quickly completed programming for implementation.

  “Mr. Data,” Picard said, “tell me when they’re within five thousand kilometers.”

  “Aye, sir.” Within a few heartbeats, it seemed, Data spoke up. “Approaching that margin, sir. In five, four, three, two, one—now.”

 
; “Now, Geordi,” Picard ordered.

  The momentary power drop in shield coverage registered on the Nuarans’ sensors. Only one intruder continued toward the Enterprise. The other four seized their chance and dived directly toward the unprotected cargo convoy like sharks sensing floundering prey. It took them just over one second to react to this perceived advantage, by which time it was gone. For just an instant, Picard’s ploy left them flat-footed—just the instant needed for Worf to fire the phasers.

  “Direct hits on four. One appears to be disabled,” the Klingon reported.

  “Captain,” Data said, “the crew of the disabled vessel is being beamed off and—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, the drifting Nuaran ship self-destructed, leaving behind an expanding cloud of debris. The four surviving ships limped clear of the combat zone.

  “I guess they don’t like to hang around after they lose,” Geordi LaForge commented. He glanced at his engineering readouts. “No damage to us or the cargo drones, Captain.”

  “Open a channel to the away team,” said Picard.

  “Channel open,” Worf said.

  “Enterprise to Commander Riker.”

  Picard’s brow creased when they heard no reply. “Enterprise to Commander Riker.” He waited for a moment, then rose from his seat to face the aft bridge stations. “Geordi, check mission operations monitors.”

  LaForge lunged for the unmanned console a few feet from his engineering panel. His deft fingers skipped across the touch sensors. He swallowed hard, then turned back toward Captain Picard. “His life-functions monitor’s been interrupted.”

  “What are we receiving?”

  “Nothing, Captain, except a locator signal. Not even the readings we’d get if he were dead.”

  “Channel to Undrun,” Picard said. Worf’s nod told him it was open. “Picard to Ambassador Undrun. Please respond.” His tone remained cool and even. Intentionally. Picard had long ago learned the necessity for a ship’s commander to retain every scrap of composure, no matter what the crisis. “Enterprise to Undrun. Please respond.” After a long moment, he looked back to Geordi. “Readings on Undrun?”