“Stowed in the armory,” said the Magnian, “behind six inches of duranium-tritanium alloy. I know.”
The engineer hated it when someone finished his sentences for him, but he put his pique aside in the interest of cooperation. After all, O’Shaugnessy and her team did represent their ace in the hole.
“I thought your people couldn’t perceive anything through walls that thick,” he said.
“Most of us can’t,” O’Shaugnessy confirmed. “However, this is a hand-picked team. We can do things others can’t.”
Simenon supposed he should be grateful for that. But somehow, he found it disturbing.
Of course, he was no stranger to the Magnians. He had worked with them on the defense of their world, taking their talents into consideration as he amplified the effectiveness of their tactical systems.
The level of esper ability he had encountered was impressive to someone who couldn’t overhear a thought or move a teacup with the power of his mind. But O’Shaugnessy, and those with her, seemed to be capable of even more of that.
How much more? the engineer wondered. And would it be enough to do what they came for?
Ensign Cole Paris was about to touch the pressure-sensitive pad beside the entrance to Jiterica’s quarters when he heard voices within.
Clearly, one of them was Jiterica’s. The new containment suit Chief Simenon had designed for her made her voice sound more natural than before, but it still wasn’t produced by vocal cords.
By contrast, the other voice sounded human. And masculine. Definitely not Commander Wu—who, to Paris’s knowledge, was the only member of the crew who had ever visited Jiterica in her quarters.
Besides Paris himself, of course.
In fact, he had come to see Jiterica many times—first as a friend, and in time as a lover. But he had never had to worry about interrupting a visit from someone else.
Paris hesitated, his hand poised by the pad. To that point, he had kept his relationship with Jiterica a secret, reluctant to attract the curiosity of his fellow crewmen.
After all, Jiterica was a low-density being, very different from Paris or anyone else on board. It was only her containment suit, with its built-in force field, that allowed her to maintain a humanoid form. Without it, she would eventually lose control and revert to her natural, gaslike state.
It wasn’t that Paris was ashamed of his feelings for Jiterica. He just didn’t want people talking about the two of them. What they had together was their business, and no one else’s.
At least, that was his take on it. He hadn’t asked Jiterica what she thought, but he had a feeling she felt the same way.
Which was why he hesitated to press the pad and announce his presence. If Jiterica was talking to someone, she might not want her guest taking note of Paris’s visit.
Then he heard the voices grow louder, and after that there was laughter. It gave rise to something in Paris that he couldn’t remember feeling before.
It wasn’t a good feeling, either. It was awkward and uncomfortable and insistent, and it made the blood rise to his face.
Damn, he thought, I’m jealous, aren’t I?
It was absurd. If Jiterica was laughing with somebody, that was a good thing. It meant that she was enjoying herself.
But there was something about that other voice that he didn’t like—something untrustworthy, it seemed to him. Maybe it was just his imagination. But Jiterica was so naive, so easy to take advantage of…
So easy to hurt.
You’re crazy, he told himself. No one on board would hurt Jiterica. There’s nothing to worry about.
Then he heard that other voice again, and it changed his mind. Setting his jaw, he pressed his hand against the pad and waited for Jiterica to respond.
It took what seemed like a long time before the door finally whispered aside. When it did, Paris saw Jiterica standing in the center of the room.
But she didn’t have her containment suit on. She was…naked, in all her glittering-ion glory. And she wasn’t alone.
“Cole,” said Jiterica, “come in.”
She gestured to indicate the one who was with her—a man half a head taller than Paris, with short blond hair and a dashing slash of a goatee.
He wasn’t a crewman. He was a Magnian. And his smile matched his voice—oily somehow.
“This is Stave,” said Jiterica.
Paris felt a rush of blood to his face. He didn’t know anything about the man, but he instinctively didn’t like him. And he liked even less the fact that Jiterica was standing there in front of him without anything on.
Back on her homeworld, no one wore clothes. Why would they? They were essentially clouds of ions, drifting through the atmosphere on savage chemical winds.
But Jiterica wasn’t a cloud at the moment. She had the shape of a humanoid, enforced even without her suit. And there was something indecent about the way Stave was leering at her.
“You ought to put your suit back on,” Paris said. And then, realizing how awkward it sounded, he added, “So you won’t strain yourself.”
Stave chuckled. That sounded oily too. “I was just showing Jiterica what it would be like to walk around without the suit—or the strain.”
Only then did Paris understand. Stave was keeping Jiterica’s molecules in line with the power of his mind.
Paris had known that the Magnians had superhuman powers, but this was the first time he had seen them in action. It would have been impressive if it didn’t feel so…improper.
And Jiterica didn’t have any sense of what was going on. She didn’t understand.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” she asked Paris.
Stave’s smile widened. “I’m glad you like it.”
Paris didn’t. But there was nothing he could do about it, short of demanding that Jiterica put her suit back on. And he didn’t have the right to do that.
Just then, someone else entered the room from the bathroom in the rear. It was Pfeffer, one of the ship’s security officers.
“Paris,” she said, acknowledging him.
The ensign put two and two together. “I guess you’re Stave’s security escort.”
Pfeffer nodded. Then she took note of Jiterica and looked concerned. “Isn’t that difficult for you to do?”
“She’s not doing it,” said Stave, with just a hint of a glance in Paris’s direction. “I am.”
Pfeffer looked impressed. “Really.”
For a moment, they stood there—all four of them. Finally, it was Stave who broke the silence. “Unfortunately,” he said, “I’ve got a tactical meeting in a few minutes. I ought to be going.”
“Of course,” said Jiterica. And she retrieved her suit.
As she slipped it back on, Paris saw the way Stave looked at her. It almost made him drop the pretense of polite behavior and confront the Magnian.
Almost. But he managed to restrain himself.
“Thank you so much,” Jiterica told Stave once she had closed up her suit.
“It was my pleasure,” said the Magnian. And with a nod to Paris, he left Jiterica’s quarters, Pfeffer trailing in his wake.
Paris waited until the door slid closed behind Stave. Then he turned to Jiterica and said, “We have to talk.”
“All right,” she said.
He sat her down and, as well as he could, explained what had happened and why it wasn’t proper. And he also told her how he felt about it.
“You’ve got a right to do anything you want,” he said. “Everyone does. But it’s traditional, in a monogamous relationship, for both partners to keep their clothes on. I mean…unless they’re alone. Or with each other.”
With every qualification, he sounded increasingly ridiculous. But it wasn’t ridiculous. It was something Jiterica needed to know if she was to continue living among humanoids.
She considered the advice for a moment, her ghostly features knotted in concentration. Then she said, “Are you certain about this?”
Paris straightened. �
��Of course.”
“The reason I ask,” said Jiterica, “is that I’ve seen others take their clothes off, with no apparent concern about my being there. Gerda, for instance.”
Paris didn’t get it. “Gerda took her clothes off…?”
“I ran into her as she was returning to her quarters from the gym. I had expressed curiosity about her Klingon upbringing and she had promised to show me some artifacts.”
“Oh. That’s different. Gerda’s a woman—a female.”
“But I’m a female as well,” Jiterica pointed out.
“Yes,” said Paris, “that’s the point. You’re both females.”
“Then it’s acceptable for those of the same sex to disrobe in front of one another?”
“Exactly.”
Jiterica frowned. “Was it improper, then, for me to undress in front of Mister Simenon?”
It took him a moment to realize what she was referring to. “No,” he said, “not at all. Mister Simenon was helping you. He was making it easier for you to get around.”
She looked at him. “But…so was Stave.”
Paris sighed. “That’s different. Stave had an interest in you that went beyond helping. He was…exploiting the situation.”
Jiterica still looked uncomfortable. “It didn’t seem that way to me. I thought he was being kind.”
He knew he wasn’t explaining very well. “Look,” he said, “can you just trust me in this area?”
“Of course,” she said. “I always trust you.”
She did, too. And that placed a responsibility on him, which in turn compelled him to ask a question: Am I telling Jiterica these things as a jealous lover, or as a friend who’s concerned that she might be making a fool of herself?
After all, some cultures preferred nudity in certain situations. Betazoids, for instance. And they were among the most enlightened species in the Federation.
“Listen,” said Paris, “it’s your decision. But if I were you, I wouldn’t let Stave do that again.”
Jiterica nodded. “All right. I won’t.”
But he could tell by the look on her ghostly face that she would never have made that choice on her own. She was embracing it strictly for his sake.
On one hand, Paris was pleased that Jiterica had trusted him as he had asked. But on the other, he wished she had reached her decision without him.
Sitting back in his chair, Picard considered the bizarre tale of Gary Mitchell, as compiled from the once-classified logs of the twenty-third-century Starship Enterprise.
As a first-year cadet at Starfleet Academy, Picard had studied Mitchell’s transformation into a seemingly all-powerful being. However, in those days he wasn’t motivated to examine every nuance of the fellow’s behavior.
Not nearly as motivated as he was now.
But then, if all went as they hoped, Picard and his crew would be confronting an equally powerful being before long. They needed to secure any advantage they could. And if reading ship’s logs might identify a weakness in Brakmaktin, the captain would go over them a thousand times.
It had already been a valuable exercise, reminding him of parts of the story he had forgotten—for instance, that Mitchell’s increasing disdain for his colleagues had led to his telekinetic strangulation of a lieutenant named Lee Kelso at the lithium cracking station on Delta Vega.
Mitchell could have merely knocked Kelso unconscious and still kept him from acting as an inconvenience. However, he decided to murder the lieutenant instead.
Brakmaktin had displayed the same cold-blooded disregard for sentient life in dealing with his crewmates on the Nuyyad scout ship. According to the lone survivor, Brakmaktin hadn’t hesitated or shown his victims any mercy. He had simply closed their throats, cutting off their air supply and asphyxiating them.
However, in Mitchell’s case at least, there was still room for a more personal variety of punishment—something driven by vengeance rather than expedience. That much was clear in his dealings with James Kirk, Mitchell’s captain.
According to the logs, Mitchell and Kirk had become friends at Starfleet Academy and worked together on two previous assignments before coming to the Enterprise. Kirk’s logs reflected his affection and admiration for Mitchell, even when the latter seemed no longer to be himself.
Mitchell had no doubt started out with similar feelings about his captain. In fact, he had risked his life to save Kirk’s at least once. And even after his exposure to the barrier energies, Mitchell seemed to harbor a certain respect for Kirk.
But in time, that respect turned into something else. Resentment? Embarrassment? A need to dissociate himself from his past? It was hidden beneath a veneer of dispassion and indifference, but it was there nonetheless.
Why else would Mitchell have forced Kirk to bow down to him and lift his hands in supplication? Why would he have opened an empty grave at Kirk’s feet, or created a headstone with the captain’s name on it? Why else except for the fact that he still felt a kinship with Kirk, and hated himself for doing so?
Mitchell could have destroyed his old friend many times over, both on the Enterprise and on the barren surface of Delta Vega. But he had refrained. He had felt compelled to castigate Kirk rather than simply eliminate him.
And in the end, it cost him dearly, because it gave the captain an opportunity to enlist the other player in their little drama—Elizabeth Dehner, resident psychiatrist and budding superbeing in her own right.
Like Mitchell, Dehner had been suffused with the energies in the barrier, and had begun to evolve into something more powerful than Homo sapiens. But Mitchell was so impressed with himself, he didn’t think twice about letting Dehner stand next to him as he humbled his friend Kirk.
Apparently, he hadn’t entertained the possibility that Dehner would turn on him. But as Kirk was driven to his knees, he pointed out to Dehner that Mitchell would kill her as soon as she became a threat to him, spurring her to level an attack against Mitchell then and there.
The two mutated beings exchanged bolts of crackling blue energy until Dehner was near death. But her efforts had drained Mitchell, temporarily robbing him of his power.
Picard wished he had someone like Dehner to help him now. Unfortunately, even if she had survived, she would have become as bad a threat as Mitchell.
The captain would have to settle for the Magnians, the only other beings in the galaxy who enjoyed even a measure of barrier-enhanced power. Unfortunately, their combined mental abilities—impressive as they seemed to Picard and his crew—wouldn’t be nearly the equal of Brakmaktin’s.
By the time the Stargazer tracked the Nuyyad down, his power might well have grown beyond Mitchell’s. It might have become something to which Mitchell could only aspire.
Would Brakmaktin have any weaknesses at all, by then? Say, the petty emotions Mitchell had displayed? Perhaps not.
But Picard had to grasp at the straws available to him. After all, knowledge was a kind of power as well, and if he was to even hope to succeed in his mission, he needed all the power he could get.
He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. And, he added, I need to stop thinking about Serenity.
She had been hovering at the edge of his consciousness since he woke that morning. It was difficult for him knowing she was on the ship, yet having to maintain his distance from her.
No doubt, she felt the same way. However, she knew the magnitude of what they were up against as well as he did. Better, perhaps, in that she had powers of her own, and therefore a better sense of the damage Brakmaktin could inflict on an adversary.
Just then, the intercom system came alive. “Captain Picard?” said a familiar voice—that of Gerda Asmund.
He sat forward. “Yes?”
“Lieutenant Kastiigan and I have come up with a set of coordinates, sir. They’re just under twenty light-years from our current position.”
Only four days away, the captain thought. “Plot a course, Lieutenant.”
“I alread
y have,” said Gerda.
He smiled. “I will advise our helm officer to pursue it. Good work, both of you.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Gerda. Kastiigan, who had remained silent to that point, echoed the sentiment.
Picard felt his jaw muscles ripple. They were getting closer to Brakmaktin. He could only hope they found him in time.
Chapter Six
PICARD COULDN’T HELP FEELING a wave of disappointment as he scrutinized his forward viewscreen. “These are the coordinates?” he asked.
“They are,” Gerda told him.
He frowned. “You’re certain?”
“Aye, sir,” she said, a tinge of resentment in her voice.
And it was justified, the captain was forced to concede. After all, Gerda had never given him reason to doubt the accuracy of her reports.
But he had expected something more here, at the end of their light-years–long journey. Some debris perhaps, some lingering traces of radiation. But there wasn’t any. In fact, there was no evidence whatsoever of a violent encounter between a Nuyyad scout and some other vessel.
Nothing but a scattering of stars on the void. And they weren’t giving up anything Picard wanted to know.
He turned to Gerda. “See if you can find an ion trail.”
“Aye, sir,” said the navigation officer, and proceeded as the captain had asked.
Picard drummed his fingers on his armrest. Questions came to mind, the answers to which made him uneasy.
What if Gerda and Kastiigan had settled on the wrong set of coordinates? What if, in fact, the place they were looking for was light-years away—and they had wasted the last four days speeding here at warp nine point two?
No, Picard insisted. Have a little faith. There was no better navigator in the fleet than Gerda. If she believed this was the spot, then more than likely it was.
He watched his navigator initiate scan after scan, using one sensor modality after another. And when none of them turned anything up, she expanded her range.
Her scan radius grew from ten kilometers to twenty. To thirty. To forty. And still no sign of what they were looking for.
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