by Greg Cox
But, wait, he recalled. Hadn’t Faal kept demanding to see Commander Riker? Suddenly, he knew what the professor’s destination had to be.
The bridge.
“Stop. Cancel previous order. Take me to the bridge. Nonstop.”
Please let me get there before Faal can bother the commander too much.
“Fire phasers again,” Commander Riker ordered. “Take us up another notch, Lieutenant.”
“With pleasure, sir,” Leyoro said. A burst of high-intensity phaser beams leaped from the emitter arrays to sting the alien cloud-creatures enclosing the Enterprise. As before, the Calamarain reacted with a thunderous roar that caused the starship to rock like an old-fashioned sailing vessel adrift on a stormy sea.
The floor of the command area rolled beneath Riker’s feet as yet another tremor jarred the bridge, reminding him forcibly of the Great Alaskan Earthquake of 2349. Back on Earth, he thought, that would have been at least a five-point-two. Thank heavens the Enterprise-E had been constructed as soundly as it had; otherwise, he’d be expecting the roof to cave in at any moment.
His mind swiftly reviewed the situation. They had hurt the Calamarain with that last phaser burst, but not enough, apparently, to make the vaporous aliens let go of the ship; frothing, luminescent fog still filled the screen of the main viewer. So far, it seemed, all they had done was make the Calamarain even more angry. That’s progress, I guess, he thought, wondering briefly what Jean-Luc Picard would do in these circumstances before pushing that thought out of his mind. The captain was gone. Riker had to rely on his judgment and experience, as he had many times before. “Tactical status?” he inquired.
“Shields at forty-six percent,” Leyoro briefed him. “Phasers armed and ready. Quantum torpedoes locked and loaded.”
Riker acknowledged her report with a nod. He wasn’t sure what good the torpedoes would do against a living cloud of plasma, especially one located at such close quarters to the Enterprise, but it might be worth finding out. “Ensign Berglund,” he ordered the officer at the primary aft science station, “locate the area of maximum density within the Calamarain cloud formation.”
Ordinarily, he’d assign Data a task like that, but he didn’t want to divert the android’s concentration from his work with the Universal Translator. Sondra Berglund, a blond Canadian officer with a specialty in advanced stellar spectroscopy, could handle the job just as well with the sensors assigned to her science console. If we’re going to target anywhere, he decided, we might as well aim for the highest concentration of Calamarain.
“Um, I’m afraid that would be us,” she reported after a few seconds. “The plasma is most dense around the Enterprise and diminishes in volume and intensity the farther the distance from the ship.”
That was no good then, Riker realized. He had a vivid mental image of hundreds, if not thousands, of gaseous Calamarain swarming over and around the Sovereign-class starship. They’re ganging up on us, all right, he thought, and pounding on the walls. There was no way he could detonate a quantum torpedo against the Calamarain while the ship remained at the heart of the cloud; they’d be caught within the blast-hazard radius. For all they knew, the matter-antimatter reaction set off by a standard torpedo could harm the Enterprise more than the Calamarain. He’d have to hold back on the torpedoes until he put some distance between the ship and its noncorporeal adversaries.
On the main viewer, riotous swells of ionized gas convulsed between the ship and open space. Riker didn’t remember the cloud looking anywhere near this stirred up the first time the Enterprise encountered the Calamarain several years ago. He still didn’t understand what they had done to agitate the amorphous entities. Q wasn’t even aboard anymore!
His temples throbbed in time with the thunder outside. His gaze darted over to Deanna, who looked like she was having an even harder time. Her eyes were shut, her face wan and drawn. He assumed she was still in touch with the Calamarains’ pain and anger, and it tore at his heart to see her under such strain. Between the tumult on the bridge and the damage they had inflicted back on their foes, Deanna was getting lambasted from both sides.
Hold on, imzadi, he thought. No matter what happens next, this can’t go on much longer.
Her lids flickered upward and she met his eyes. A thin smile lifted her lips. Riker knew that even if his actual words hadn’t gotten across to her, his message definitely had. There was a Klingon term, he recalled, for such an instance of wordless communication in the midst of battle, but what exactly was the word again? Tova’dok. That was it, he recalled. He and Deanna were sharing a moment of Tova’dok.
Their private communion did not last long. With renewed ferocity, the unleashed power of the Calamarain slammed into the ship, causing the bridge to lurch to port. Behind him, at the engineering station, Ensign Schultz lost his balance and tumbled to the left, smacking his head into the archway over a turbolift entrance. Berglund hurried to assist him.
“Everyone okay back there?” Riker called out over the crashing thunder.
“I think so,” Schultz answered. Riker glanced back over his shoulder to see a nasty cut on the young man’s scalp. A trickle of blood leaked through his fingers as he held his hand to his head. Undaunted, Schultz headed back to his post. Riker admired his spirit, but saw no reason to risk the ensign unnecessarily.
“Report to sickbay, mister,” Riker ordered. “Berglund, take over at engineering.” The overhead lights dimmed momentarily, more evidence of the duress imposed on the ship by the Calamarain; Ensign Schultz wasn’t the only resource on the Enterprise that had been knocked out of commission.
“Shields at forty-one,” Leyoro updated him as Schultz took the turbolift from the bridge. Riker wished he could have sent someone with the wounded ensign to ensure that he got to sickbay, but he couldn’t spare anyone from the bridge while they remained besieged by the Calamarain.
“Understood,” he said. No warp engines. Minimal shields. And, so far, no significant damage to the Calamarain. Their situation was getting worse by the moment. “Data, how are you doing on that translator?”
Data looked up from his computations. “Significant headway has been made; in fact, I believe I have identified a specific wave pattern that translates to something close to an expression of pain.” His voice acquired a regretful tone. “Unfortunately, I estimate that I still require as much as one-point-two-zero hours before I can reliably guarantee actual communication with the Calamarain.”
That might not be good enough, Riker thought.
Before he could open his mouth, though, he heard the turbolift whish open behind him. At first, he thought it might be Robert Schultz, stubbornly refusing to abandon his post, but then he heard the impassioned voice of Professor Faal. “What’s happening?” he asked frantically. “What are you doing?”
Damn, Riker thought. This was the last thing he needed. Deanna looked distressed as well by the Betazoid scientist’s unexpected arrival. He peeked at Deanna, recalling her concerns about the doctor’s stability and motives. She raised one hand before her face, as if to fend off the disruptive emotions emanating from Faal. No surprise there, Riker thought. He imagined that the professor was throwing off plenty of negative feelings.
A moment later, the turbolift doors opened again, revealing an abashed Reg Barclay. “I’m s-sorry, Commander,” he stammered, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously, “but the professor insisted, sort of.” His eyes bulged and his jaw fell open as his gaze fell upon the frothing plasma storm upon the main viewer.
“Yes,” Faal seconded. His face was flushed, his wild brown eyes crazed with anxiety. “I have to talk to you, Commander. It’s more important than you can possibly realize.”
“Commander?” Leyoro asked, still determined to engage the enemy despite the lack of any tangible results. The nonstop reverberations of the Calamarain rolled over the bridge like a series of sonic booms. The red alert signals flashed like beacons in the night.
Riker decided to get the confrontation ove
r with; Faal wasn’t going to like what he had to say, but perhaps he could be made to see reason. He rose from the captain’s chair to face the celebrated physicist. Faal’s body was trembling so hard that Riker feared for his health. The man’s breathing was shallow and rapid, and he seemed to be having trouble standing; Faal tottered unsteadily on shaky feet. Riker’s hand drifted over his combadge, ready to summon Dr. Crusher if necessary.
“I regret to inform you, Professor, that I’ve made the decision to abandon the experiment due to hostile activity on the part of the Calamarain.” He saw no reason to alarm the doctor by detailing the full particulars of their danger; instead, he reached out to brace up the ailing scientist. “I’m sorry, but that’s the only prudent choice under the circumstances.”
Faal batted Riker’s arm away. “You can’t do that!” he snapped. “It’s completely unacceptable. I won’t hear of it. The captain’s orders came straight from Starfleet Command.” A fit of coughing attacked Faal, bending him all the way over. Faal dosed himself with his ubiquitous hypospray, then staggered over to the empty chair Riker usually occupied and collapsed down onto it. “The barrier,” he gasped. “That’s all that matters.”
The floor beneath Riker’s boots tilted sharply, nearly knocking him off balance. Lightning flashed through the storming plasma cloud upon the main viewer, the glare of the thunderbolt so bright that it overloaded the safety filters on the screen and made him squint. “The Calamarain seem to disagree.”
“Then destroy them!” Faal urged from the chair, squinting at the control panel in front of him as if he were determined to launch a volley of photo torpedoes himself. Wet, mucous noises escaped from his lungs. “Disintegrate them totally. This is a Federation starship. You must be able to dispose of a pile of stinking gases!”
Riker was shocked by the man’s bloodthirsty ravings. “That’s not what we’re here for,” he said forcefully, “and that’s not what this ship is about.” He pitied Faal for his failing health and frustrated ambitions, but that didn’t condone advocating genocide. “Mr. Barclay, return Professor Faal to his quarters.”
“No!” Faal wheezed. He tried to stand up, but his legs wouldn’t support him. Barclay hurried around to Faal’s side, but Faal just glared at him before shouting at Riker again. “I won’t go! I demand to be heard!”
“Shields down to thirty-four percent,” Leyoro interrupted. “Shall I call Security to remove the professor?”
“Do it,” Riker ordered. Lieutenant Barclay, wringing his hands together, looked like he wanted to sink through the floor. Riker turned his back on both the irate scientist and the embarrassed crewman. He had more important things to deal with.
Like saving the Enterprise.
Thirteen
Cool night air blew against Picard, chilling him. Far beneath him, moonlight from no less than two orbiting satellites reflected off the shimmering surface of a great expanse of water. Where am I? he thought, trying to orient himself.
He and Q were no longer in the subatomic realm they had exited only a heartbeat before, that much was certain. Without even knowing where he truly was, he could tell that this was more like reality as he knew it. The coolness of the breeze, the taste of the air, the comforting tug of gravity at his feet, all these sensations assured him that he was back in the real world once more. But where and, perhaps more important, when?
He quickly took stock of his surroundings. He, along with Q, appeared to be standing on some sort of balcony overlooking a precipitous cliff face that dropped what looked like a kilometer or so to the still black waters of an enormous lake or lagoon. The balcony itself, as green and lustrous as polished jade, seemed carved out of the very substance of the cliff. As Picard leaned out over the edge of a waist-high jade railing, intricately adorned with elaborate filigree, he saw that similar outcroppings dotted the face of the precipice, each one packed with humanoid figures, some looking out over the edge as he was, others dining comfortably at small tables as though at some fashionable outdoor café. A sense of excitement and anticipation, conveyed by the hubbub of a hundred murmuring voices, permeated the atmosphere. Picard got the distinct impression that he and Q had arrived just in time for some special occasion.
Jade cliffs. Two moons. A gathering of hundreds in caves dug out of the face of a great, green cliff. The pieces came together in his mind, forming a picture whose implications left him reeling. “Mon dieu!” he gasped. “This is Tagus III. The sacred ruins of the ancient cliff dwellers!”
“Well, they’re not exactly ruins at the moment, Jean-Luc,” Q said casually, “nor are they really all that ancient.” Picard’s self-appointed tour guide sat a few meters behind him at a circular table set for two. Q sipped a bubbling orange liquid from a translucent crystal goblet and gestured toward the empty seat across from him. A second goblet rested on the jade-inlaid tabletop, next to a large copper plate on which were displayed strips of raw meat, swimming in a shallow pool of blue liquid that could have been sauce or gravy or blood for all Picard knew. He didn’t recognize the delicacy, nor did he expect to if this alien time and place was truly what it appeared to be.
The jade pueblos of Tagus III, he marveled, as they must have been nearly two billion years ago. He had studied them for years, even delivered the keynote speech at an archaeological conference devoted to the topic, but he had never expected to witness them in person, let alone in their original condition. The Taguans of his own time had strictly forbidden any outsiders to visit the ruins, keeping them off-limits to archaeologists and other visitors ever since the Vulcans conducted their own ill-fated dig on the site over a decade before. The ban had frustrated a generation of scholars and historians, including Picard himself, for whom the celebrated ruins remained one of the foremost archaeological mysteries in the Alpha Quadrant. Possibly the oldest evidence of humanoid civilization in the galaxy, at least prior to the groundbreaking and still controversial work of the late Professor Richard Galen, the ruins on Tagus III had provoked literally millennia of debate and speculation. Before the Taguans decided to deny the site to offworlders, there had been at least 947 known excavations, the first one dating back to 22,000 years ago, almost 18,000 years before the rise of human civilization on Earth. The legacy of the ancient beings who first made their mark on this very cliff had puzzled and intrigued the galaxy since before human history began.
And here he was, visiting in the flesh a wonder of immeasurable age that he had read about ever since he was a small child in Labarre. Picard recalled that once before Q had offered to show him the secrets of Tagus III, the night before Picard was to speak at that prestigious archaeological conference. Seldom had he ever been so tempted by one of Q’s insidious propositions, although he had ultimately found the strength to reject Q’s offer, both out of respect for the Taguans’ deeply held convictions and his own habitual suspicions as to Q’s true motives. He’d be lying to himself, however, if he didn’t admit just how enticing the prospect of actually setting foot on the site had been.
Now that he really was here, he could not resist trying to absorb as many sights and sounds as he was able. No matter the circumstances of his arrival, and despite his compelling desire to return to his ship as expeditiously as possible, the archaeologist in him could have no more turned away from this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity than the starship captain could have accepted a desk job at the bottom of a gravity well. He had to witness all there was to see.
Besides, he rationalized, the Taguans’ twenty-fourth-century mandate against visiting aliens would not go into effect for a couple of billion years or so….
He took a closer look at the people crowding the balconies beside and below him. Whether the Taguans of his own time were actually descended from those who had left their presence marked upon these cliffs, as they steadfastly maintained, or whether they represented a subsequent stage of immigration or evolution, as suggested by the findings of the Vulcan expedition of 2351, was a question greatly debated in the archaeological community.
Indeed, it was this very issue that had inspired the modern Taguans to close off the ruins to outsiders, in an attempt to protect their vaunted heritage from the “lies and fallacies” of non-Taguan researchers.
Judging from what he saw now, it appeared that the Vulcans were correct after all. The Taguans he knew were characterized by turquoise skin and a heavy layer of downy white fur. In contrast, the figures populating this historical vista, clad in revealing silk garments of diverse hues, looked quite hairless, with smooth, uncovered flesh whose skin tones ranged from a pale yellow to a deep, ruddy red. Their faces were remarkably undifferentiated from each other, bearing only the essential basics of humanoid features, without much in the way of distinguishing details. Two eyes, a nose, a mouth, a vague suggestion of lips and ears. The vague, generalized visages looked familiar to Picard, but it took him a moment to place them.
Of course, he realized after a quick search through his memory. The inhabitants of ancient Tagus bore a distinct resemblance to the unnamed humanoids who had first spread their genetic material throughout the galaxy some four billion years before his own era. He well remembered the holographic image of the original, urhumanoid who had greeted him at the completion of his quest to finish the work of Professor Galen. Could it be that the people of the jade cliffs were the direct descendants of those ancient beings who had indirectly contributed to the eventual evolution of the human race, the Klingons, the Vulcans, the Cardassians, and every other known form of humanoid life? If so, then the ruins on modern-day Tagus were even more important than he had ever believed.
A thought occurred to him, and he turned from the railing to address Q, who took another sip from his goblet. “Why aren’t they noticing us?” Picard asked. He explored his own very human features with his hand. They felt unchanged. Looking down, he felt relieved to see that his Grecian garments had been replaced by his familiar Starfleet uniform. “We must stand out in the crowd. In theory, Homo sapiens has not even evolved yet.”