FOREIGN FOES

by Dave Galanter

  Riker pushed himself up against the overstuffed chair that held his empty uniform. She disappeared through the doorway and he chuckled softly. He didn’t know what it was about her. All he knew was that she either understood that social graces were left floating near the dock when you spent your life tearing through the galaxy, or she didn’t care about them in any case.

  From the folds of his collapsed uniform, his communicator sounded. He dragged the red tunic toward him and pressed the arrowhead comm badge. “Riker here.”

  “Deanna here, Will. The captain wants us to report to the meeting hall as soon as possible,” she said.

  “On my way,” Riker said quickly.

  He and Deanna might not be together anymore, but they tried not to rub each other’s nose in the fact.

  “I’m far on the other side. I’ll meet you there. Riker out.”

  He jabbed the communicator off.

  School teachers and empaths, they could always tell. Never lie to either.

  “Trouble, sir?”

  Riker was all business. He stood laser-straight between Deanna and Barbara, and looked only at Picard.

  “Possibly.” The captain raised a silencing finger and spoke into his comm badge, his voice low. He wanted to assure neither the Hidran nor the Klingons across the hall overheard. “Repeat for Commander Riker what you just told me, Mr. Data.”

  “Aye, sir.” Data’s voice seemed to boom from the communicator’s speaker and Picard quickly thumbed the volume down. “The white-noise transmission blanket is taking considerably more power than it should. Sensors indicate the source of absorption is somewhere on the planet’s surface.”

  Riker moved forward and asked into the comm badge, “Any ideas as to what’s causing it?”

  “Nothing concrete. However, I am formulating a hypothesis.”

  Picard allowed only a brief pause. “Well?” be prodded.

  “I suspect the Klingons may have some covert operation under way, sir. They may have found a way to breach the transmission blanket. It would explain the energy drain. Or perhaps they have a cloaked base of operations somewhere on the surface.”

  “Activity from the Klingon ship?” Picard asked.

  “Nothing at this time, sir,” Data said.

  “Any indication that they have another landing party on the planet?”

  There was a pause, then finally Data answered. “No, sir. But the transmission blanket is interfering with the accuracy of our own sensors.”

  Picard felt his brow furrow. No proof. He could hardly go accusing without evidence. In fact, he could hardly go accusing with it. The last thing they wanted was to upset either delegation. And both the Hidran and the Klingons were ready to welcome any chance to scuttle the progress that had sailed so calmly until now. Calm being relative—no one had been killed yet. “Very well, Mr. Data. Do what you must to get to the bottom of the situation. Commander Riker and myself will see what we can find out down here. Picard out.” He tapped the communicator off and nodded toward the delegates. “Mr. Worf and the security detail can handle the dinner, Number One. I want you to see if you can find the source of this energy absorption Data is talking about.”

  “Aye, sir.” Riker tried to relax his posture, his muscles.

  Picard hadn’t noticed the man was a knot of tension until the tightness began to fade.

  “Captain, do you still think it’s a good idea to have Worf around?” the commander asked. “It didn’t work well this morning.”

  “I do,” Picard said. “The Hidran need to see that the Klingons have indeed changed in some ways. Worf is an excellent example of that.”

  Riker nodded.

  Perhaps it was for the best. He seemed pleased with the order that would take him away from the dinner. And Picard could send Deanna as well. He wouldn’t have to keep considering the effect of all this hatred on her. Neither delegation liked having an empath present, and it was exhausting for the empath as well.

  “You and Counselor Troi can take one of the low-atmosphere craft the colonists use.” Picard turned to Barbara and quickly added, “With your permission, Dr. Hollitt.”

  “Of course, Captain,” Barbara said.

  Picard smiled a thank-you and looked to Riker. Once again the first officer was a clenched fist, his spine beam-straight.

  “Picard to Enterprise.”

  For all the festive noise that filled the hall, all the laughing and talking and chattering that came from a hearty dinner, it was the silence that was irritating Picard. The silence of the Klingon and Hidran delegates who sat brooding at each other across untouched plates. The silence of a ship that refused his call. His ship.

  The captain pursed his lips and shook his head at Commander La Forge. He tapped his comm badge again, searching for a better channel. “Picard to Enterprise.”

  Finally: “Data here, sir.”

  “What the devil took so long?” Picard demanded.

  “Sorry, sir. I am the only one with clearance to override the transmission blanket. I was occupied for a moment.”

  There was the slightest delay in the android’s response. Probably the fault of the white-noise blanket.

  “I didn’t order restricted clearance to communications for Enterprise personnel. Why isn’t Mr. La Forge’s communicator working?”

  “I took the prerogative of deactivating all communicators on the surface aside from yours and Commander Riker’s, sir. In case someone were to appropriate them.”

  “I see,” Picard said. “I want them re-activated, Commander. If Mr. Worf or another member of the security team needs to reach the ship, I want them to be able to.”

  “Aye, sir,” Data said in his normal, even tone.

  “Stand by to beam Mr. La Forge up.” Picard turned to the engineer. Geordi’s coffee-brown features were twisted into a pained mask. The captain grabbed the man’s elbow, waiting to lend him support at any moment. “Is it worse?”

  Geordi struggled to force a smile. “Well, bad enough to get me to leave a meal halfway through.”

  “Report to sickbay as soon as you’re aboard. And no matter what the doctor says, I want you to rest that stubborn head of yours.”

  Geordi gasped and pressed the heels of his palms against his throbbing temples. Agony, spikes of it, ripped through his head and down his spine.

  Eyes that never saw the warmth of light now burned as if open to the sun. He thrust his VISOR away, far way.

  Aching knees wobbled and gave, and he crumpled toward the transporter pad.

  Hands grabbed him before he hit the floor and he felt his cheek against a body he could not see.

  “Emergency medical team to main transporter room! Hurry!”

  The universe was a blur of pain, until needles of white and sharp yellow finally melted into blackness.

  “No, thank you.” Captain Picard placed the flat of his hand over his glass and nodded the waiter off. He looked down the length of the main table and nearly sighed. Twelve beings, two races, and not a damned thing for them to agree on. For two hours they had just sat there, not eating, not talking, not finding any common ground as Picard had hoped they might.

  “This isn’t going well, Mr. Worf,” he said, leaning toward the tall Klingon standing at his side.

  Worf looked from the stoic Hidran Ambassador Zhad to the somber Klingon Captain Kadar. They headed their separate delegations of dark, angry comrades.

  “It is not, sir?” Worf asked wryly.

  Picard suppressed a smile. “I’ve been to more joyous funerals.”

  Worf glanced down to meet his eyes and tried to force away a smile.

  “Perhaps ‘funeral’ is a poor choice of words,” Picard added.

  “Indeed.”

  Picard nodded. “But not wholely inaccurate.” He looked up at his security officer and wondered just what it was that allowed Worf to joke about an issue that had his Klingon cousins ready to start another war.

  “What do you make of all this, Mr. Worf?”

  T
he tall Klingon leaned down, as if he wanted to be sure only the captain heard his deep voice.

  “I expected as much. From both of them.”

  Picard’s brows drew up in surprise. He knew it was a look that demanded Worf elaborate.

  “The Hidran are quick to anger, sir,” Worf continued. “You have forced them into an agreement, the benefits of which they do not yet fully understand. Captain Kadar on the other hand is more enraged at the dishonor. His hand has been forced. Through his indignation, he can barely see it was in the only direction he could move.”

  “You don’t side with the Klingons on this matter?” Picard asked.

  “They are wrong,” Worf said in that matter-of-fact tone that no one would dare take issue with.

  Picard pushed out a short breath. “They’re being stubborn.”

  “Stubbornness is a Klingon trait. Being wrong is not.”

  Nodding, the captain said, “Prove it to the Hidran.”

  Worf thought for a moment. “How?”

  The captain’s eyes thinned and he studied the Hidran delegation across the hall. He looked smartly up at Worf and gestured toward the ambassador. “Distrust passes with familiarity. Why not show them who you are?”

  With forced gentility and a dozen Klingon eyes burning into his back, Worf awkwardly lowered himself into the seat adjacent to Ambassador Zhad. Not in front—not across from him. Next to him.

  It went against his grain, and he had to force the tension from his muscles and wrench a casual look onto his face.

  The Hidran turned his head and hammered Worf with a glare. “What is this?”

  “It is a dinner, where honorable beings may meet and break bread together,” Worf said calmly. Maybe too calmly. It was a strange balance for him: his tone had to be severe enough to warrant respect, yet soft enough to broadcast appeasement.

  Zhad said nothing. He stared. Everyone was staring—the Hidran, the Klingons, Picard. Another knot in Worf’s spine.

  Worf reached out for the platter of grain-bread in front of them, and as his fingers touched the handle of the knife, one of the Hidran began to rise.

  The Klingon stopped, let his fingers fall to the table. He looked up to see Urosk gesturing the Hidran soldier back down.

  One slice with the knife and Worf had a large piece of the Velexian delicacy. He made sure he held the knife not one moment longer than necessary.

  Tearing the bread into two chunks, he dipped one into a dish of gravy and held the other out to Zhad.

  The ambassador looked away. “Better to die than eat with a Klingon,” he spat.

  It was Worf who remained silent this time. He would not prove Zhad right about all Klingons by speaking in anger. His race was inflexible—he did not have to be. He had the cushion of a Terran upbringing to support him, and he could use that hereditary Klingon obstinance to make sure he did not slip into impulsiveness.

  “Do you fear me so much that we cannot have a meal within the same walls?” Worf finally asked.

  Zhad turned so quickly he nearly spun out of his seat. He grabbed the bread from Worf’s hand and pushed it through the electronic field in his breathing mask. A loud gulp and it was down—whole.

  They locked eyes, Worf and Zhad. Klingon and Hidran. Enemy to enemy.

  No, not enemy. Worf knew he was not the enemy. Neither friend nor foe, he was a symbol, and the irony of that nipped at him. He would never feel fully Klingon, yet here he stood to represent all Klingons. An alien on Earth and Qo’noS, he fit only in Starfleet, and now found himself the embodiment of two cultures that would never completely accept him. That he could never completely accept.

  “If we can have a meal in common, perhaps we can share a trust,” Worf said slowly.

  “We will share nothing!” Zhad pushed back his chair and sent it grinding across the floor. He turned, his slick black cloak twisting around him as he stormed through the nearest door.

  Worf glanced back at Picard, but did not wait for an order or even gesture. He rose, and followed the ambassador out.

  The gall of these animals.

  Zhad angrily paced the dim corridor. The only thing worse than an arrogant Klingon was an insufferably condescending Starfleet Klingon.

  He wondered if even Picard fully trusted Worf. Or was it just another of the Federation’s tricks?

  How could he learn to fight the urge to crush those ridged skulls? How had the Federation? It was no secret—Starfleet had been at odds with the Klingons for decades. How did Picard now trust a phaser to a Klingon on his own crew?

  “Ambassador?”

  Zhad pivoted toward the deep baritone he knew was Worf’s. His muscles tensed and he readied himself for the attack.

  “I have not come to antagonize you,” Worf said.

  “Your existence antagonizes me—as your people have done for a hundred years,” Zhad sputtered.

  His throat felt tight and he adjusted a control on his mask to allow himself more air.

  “War is a fire that can rage out of control, Ambassador,” Worf said. “But only when both sides feed the flame.”

  “A Klingon saying for every occasion, Starfleet Lieutenant Worf?” Zhad snorted. He took a step closer to the Klingon he nearly towered over. “You slip into stereotype. Do you know the Hidran reply to your saying? How many times must we be blistered before the flame is finally smothered?”

  “I am sorry,” Worf said. “I did think there was some hope for you. I see I was wrong.”

  “Don’t you pity me, Klingon mongrel!” Zhad balled his fists and leaped forward. If anyone needed a few hard jabs of pity, it was this pompous Klingon.

  Worf jerked up his arm and belted Zhad away.

  Pain knocked Zhad off his feet and pinched his eyes shut. He fell hard on his knees, then rolled forward, his hands covering the breathing mask that had been pounded into his face.

  “My apology, Ambassador,” Worf said as he turned to the door that led back to the main hall. “I hope in the future we can both learn to feed the flame a little less.”

  The Starfleet Klingon left, abandoning Zhad in a puddle of pain and awe.

  Zhad’s throat was parched with anger and hate. Still somewhat dazed, he straightened his tall frame and worked his way to his feet. If Worf had stayed another moment, he would have been on the floor now. And there would have been no getting up.

  Too much of a coward to even finish what he starts, Zhad thought.

  Taking a deep breath, Zhad felt the scratchiness of dry air. He adjusted the mask control again and felt a twinge of pain ripple through his body.

  He sucked in another breath. Dry. Too Dry. Like the grit the Klingons filled their own lungs with.

  Frustrated, Zhad snapped at a dial on his mask. “More moisture,” he muttered, then found himself doubled over in agony.

  He gasped, tried to suck in a breath. Any breath. Couldn’t!

  His hands flew back up to the mask and grabbed wildly. No air! His chest heaved, his lungs sharp and tight. He struggled to tear the mask away—to gulp any air if not his own.

  Wet fingers clawed at the tubes that now burned his skin. He yelped in pain and twisted them out. Anything! Anything to stop the pain!

  He felt warm blood drain from the holes in his cheeks down his shoulders and into his skin.

  Staggering forward, he looked at the air tubes that had once fed him life. They now dangled useless in his hands. He coughed a dry hack . . . and knew he was dead.

  The Klingon! He’d known just where to strike the blow! Just where to snap the mask and force it to destroy its owner!

  Hatred took over where panic left off. Zhad drew the dagger hidden in his cloak. His throat closed and his chest ached for freedom from its desert grave. He scrambled up, determination the only wind his lungs could feel.

  He nearly fell through the doorway and into the hall, a trail of blood pouring from his exposed mouth.

  Where? Where was the Starfleet Klingon? Where was Worf! He did this thing! He would pay!

>   Vision began to cloud into a mesh of color, and the ambassador cursed himself a fool for not killing Worf when he’d had the chance.

  He held the dagger close and squinted across the room.

  No one moved toward him. The hall was alive with noise, yet all he heard was the silence that was his absent breath. Worf was too far across the hall, and Zhad knew he would not reach him.

  Another Klingon—closer. Any would do.

  He would avenge his own death, and prove to his people that the Klingons could not be trusted.

  He croaked out a puff of air, and took in the alien breath that was sand in his lungs.

  A moment passed, and felt an eternity.

  Zhad fought to focus . . . feet away . . . one Klingon . . . alone . . .

  Slowly, the Klingon delegate began to turn. Zhad saw his victim’s eyes. It was his due, to see the look on the Klingon’s face as they met death together. Everything has a price, Klingon! That you shall learn!

  Zhad drew back his arm, and with all the strength he had left, with all the strength his people had left, plunged the blade down.

  The Klingon’s hands moved too slowly to stop the dagger from piercing his armor and cutting through his rib cage. Zhad reveled in the feeling of sinew tearing against steel, bone cracking against hate. A gush of alien blood warmed his cold fingers.

  The Klingon’s grunt shook the room, and he fell back, pulling Zhad down with him.

  What a sight! What a shadow they would cast, both of them collapsed into a heap in the center of the hall’s floor. His death . . . his victory . . . how the legends would be!

  He struggled to raise his head one last time, to taste with his eyes the Klingon’s blood that gurgled round his blade.

  Zhad saw, and savored his success for a final, fleeting moment.

  Slowly, his hand fell away from the dagger that triumphantly stuck in the Klingon’s chest: a flag beckoning on the brink of war.

  Chapter Four

  “EMERGENCY STRETCHER to main transporter room! Stat!”

  Beverly Crusher lifted Geordi’s head gingerly off the transporter pad with one hand and ran her medical scanner over his tearing, sightless eyes with her other.