FOREIGN FOES

by Dave Galanter

  She stooped down beside him, touching his shoulder and looking down at his leg. “You need another dressing. My uniform or yours?”

  Managing a weak smile he looked up at her. “Do I get to choose what part of the uniform?”

  Fingering the seam of her uniform at her shoulder, she tore down the arm of her tunic. “I don’t know why I even bother asking you these things.”

  He smiled a bit again, and slowly stretched out his leg for her to work on. As she undid the old makeshift bandage to replace it with a new one, Riker averted his eyes up the corridor and tried to use the pain to focus his concentration.

  This ship was a labyrinth—hallway after hallway, passages connecting to conduits leading to corridors that opened into other hallways. And a few doors that wouldn’t open for them. That was suspicious.

  Someone had built a giant space-maze, and was testing them. The riddle was obvious: whose ship? Where was the Minotaur? That question tugged at Riker’s thoughts.

  It wasn’t the Hidran. He doubted they had the materials to waste on anything that wasn’t a weapon or a power source.

  And he didn’t think the Klingons were involved either. This didn’t have a Klingon feel to it—of that much he was sure. Since he had met Worf, Klingons held a certain fascination for Riker. One he indulged by taking brief assignments on Klingon vessels and by pursuing a friendship with his Klingon security chief.

  That was unusual for him. Will Riker had never exactly had to seek out friends.

  Until Worf.

  Gaining the Klingon’s respect was a given because he was Worf’s superior officer. Gaining his friendship . . . his confidence . . . those only came with time. It’s what Riker needed from a member of his bridge crew, to make the team run smoothly.

  Pursuing that friendship was easier than Riker had first thought. He and Worf agreed on much, from tactics to politics, and Worf’s loyalty to Picard and his selfless protection of the captain cemented their friendship.

  A stab of pain jolted Riker from his thoughts. Deanna was tying the new bandage. This time he didn’t complain of its tightness.

  She rose, helping to pull Riker to his feet. “Will, you’re not clotting. The wound is too deep.”

  He took in a long breath and hobbled-in the new bandage, making sure he could walk. “I know. Let’s hope we find someone.”

  Deanna came up alongside him, bracing him as he limped down the hall. “I still don’t sense any presence here.”

  “Even if there’s no one here there’s got to be communication equipment or something similar.”

  Unaccustomed to the stiffness of the new bandage, he lost his balance for a moment and gripped her arm.

  “Will,” she said, using his lack of balance as an excuse to turn him toward her, “What if there are beings here and they’re just too alien for me to sense?”

  A frightening thought, in a way. Not so much that their appearance might be alien . . . but what if their morality was. What was inside an alien mind was the real terror. Did they respect life? Even unfamiliar life? Riker had to give them the benefit of the doubt. “They’re not so strange that they don’t have our height, or thereabout, and breathe our atmosphere and use buttons and doors and corridors,” he said.

  “Well, if there is someone here,” Deanna said, “I think I should go looking, not you. You need to rest a bit longer. You’ve lost too much blood and could die from dehydration or a simple infection.”

  “Pep talks aren’t your strong suit are they?” He shook his head. “But you’re right. Both of us have already been walking too long. My leg may or may not kill me, but lack of food and water certainly will.” He pushed away from her and stood on his own. “Someone is here,” he said. “And we’re going to find them.”

  With a sympathetic rub of his own leg, he hobbled toward the door that just a few minutes earlier had denied them entry. He braced himself against the doorframe and dug his fingers into the gap that must have been the seam between the sliding doors.

  “It’s locked tight,” he grunted.

  Deanna peered over his shoulder. “Or it’s vacuum sealed. How do we know there isn’t open space beyond that door?”

  Because docking bays usually had reinforced doors and backup systems, but he didn’t feel up to explaining. Instead he just sighed and went for the shorter answer. “Trust me. We were in a corridor on the other side of this room. I’m sure.”

  “All right,” she said slowly, “but what if there’s a vacuum in there anyway? They may keep some rooms or corridors without life support to save on energy.”

  Riker lowered his head against the door, partly out of exhaustion, partly out of exasperation. She was right, of course, but it was an annoying habit. Most irritating was that he should have had the same thought—but hadn’t. Had he lost too much blood? His mind was cloudy.

  He shuffled back from the door and pulled out his phaser. “Okay. We’ll cut a small hole in the door. If we don’t hear a sucking sound or feel a pressure change, we can blast the rest of the door. Deal?”

  She smiled. “You’re in charge.”

  He nodded as if it were true, and fired the phaser. A thin line of light pulsed from the weapon and into the door. A small hole sizzled open and Riker quickly released the phaser’s trigger.

  No hiss. No pressure change.

  Something was beyond that door . . . and it wasn’t vacuum.

  “Good enough?” Riker asked.

  Deanna nodded and smiled, but Riker, tired as he was, noticed something beyond that smile. Worry, maybe? About him or their situation? He didn’t know. Beyond the door was more important than beyond the smile right now.

  He reset the phaser and triggered it again. The door collapsed into vapor.

  After a moment the fog of destroyed metal cleared, and they looked in.

  “What is all this?” Riker took a step into the room, Deanna following closely.

  They looked up, down, left, right, and for the first time in hours saw something other than bleak, spartan corridor.

  “Machinery,” Deanna said.

  Riker nodded blankly, in awe of the mastery, even beauty: different-colored panels, not square but rounded. They seemed alive. Not like the Enterprise was alive . . . these machines seemed almost fluid, as if there was motion . . . but there wasn’t. Just the vibration of something being done—processed or pumped or . . . something.

  These humming and thrumming machines lined the walls on all sides. The room extended as the corridor did outside—the other doors must have opened to this same room. A welcome sight from the desolate halls they had been walking for a good part of a day.

  However, Riker was struck by the same feeling as in the halls. No people. No coffee cups or chairs or papers or anything that would even remotely suggest recent inhabitancy by life.

  Riker trotted as fast as he could over to one of the machines. He touched its smooth, warm surface. There wasn’t a button or a key pad or a screen with a graph to be found.

  He turned to see Deanna stepping away from a different device that was closer to the door. “Well,” he said, “busting in a locked door didn’t exactly bring the palace guards down on us.”

  Deanna frowned.

  Riker, weak though he was, took her by the shoulder. “What? What is it?”

  “Frankly, you look bad, Will.”

  He ignored the comment about himself and instead looked at her—dark hair matted against her forehead, perspiration over her lip. “You don’t look so great either,” he said, noticing that the room was hot.

  The machines . . . they were giving off heat.

  “These are all working at something,” he said, gesturing with the phaser as he returned it to his holster. “Doing what?”

  She shrugged and sighed, clasping her hands anxiously in front of herself. “No way to tell. Propulsion, maybe?”

  Riker bit the inside of his lip and looked around the room. Machines. Working, busy, bustling . . . “What if they break down? Someone must be h
ere to repair them, right?”

  The heat was getting to him and he shifted back toward the door way to brace himself against the wall.

  He didn’t wait to hear an answer from Deanna. “Someone,” he repeated, “has to fix these machines if they break.” He pulled the phaser from his holster. “And I’m going to break them.”

  “Computer.”

  “Ready.”

  “Locate and list all Federation vessels capable of warp speed, this quadrant.”

  “Located.”

  Data’s desk screen filled:

  U.S.S. CHARLESTON, STARFLEET REGISTRY, NCC-42285

  U.S.S. HOOD, STARFLEET REGISTRY, NCC-42296

  U.S.S. EXCALIBUR, STARFLEET REGISTRY, NCC-42252

  S.S. EAGLE, EARTH REGISTRY, USA-3197BL-9

  S.S. TAN-SHRA, TELLAR REGISTRY, FLN-633136052SIE

  “Computer, which is the closest ship to our position?”

  “The S.S. Eagle is in sector seven.”

  “Specifics on Eagle.”

  “S.S. Eagle, privately owned exploratory craft. Registry: Lansing, Michigan, United States of America, Earth. Crew of thirty-three. Current ownership—”

  “Discontinue. Which Starfleet vessel is the closest?”

  “The U.S.S. Excalibur is in sector four.”

  “Twelve days distant at maximum warp,” Data said, more to himself than to the computer.

  “Correct.”

  The door chime to Data’s quarters rang and the android quickly tapped the computer off.

  “Come.”

  Geordi felt the door whisper open before him. He stepped through hesitantly, unsure of Data’s location.

  “Hope I’m not disturbing you, Data,” he said, looking for a response to place the android. He probably should have just asked the man’s location, but Geordi was playing the “I’m not really blind game” and that would be against the rules—like being wakened in the middle of the night and refusing to admit you were sleeping.

  “Geordi,” Data said, just a hint of surprise etched into his voice. “Should you be ambulatory?”

  Geordi walked toward the android’s voice. “I’m blind, Data, not sick.” He tapped his stomach and the dark vest that lay over his uniform tunic. “Proximity detector, so I don’t bang into people. And I think I should know the layout of the ship by now.” Geordi used the detector to sense things—the sensor net in the vest would react on his skin, pushing his flesh as he would near an object. It would keep him from embarrassing himself.

  There was silence.

  Geordi frowned. “You’re nodding again, Data.” The android shouldn’t have forgotten. Such things—any thing—didn’t slip Data’s mind. This was the first outward sign that something was wrong—really wrong—with Data.

  “I am sorry,” the android said. “Can you guide yourself to a chair?”

  “Yeah.” Geordi took one more step into the room. He turned toward where he believed the chair to be, felt the electrical twinge from the proximity sensor that told him he was correct, and lowered himself into the seat.

  He heard Data’s chair swivel toward him, and he sat back. “We have to talk about this thing with Worf.”

  “Bridge to Commander Data.”

  “Certainly,” Data said to him, possibly holding an index finger up. “One moment, please.”

  Geordi heard the tap of the android’s fingers against his comm badge and imagined he’d seen it. He’d been doing a lot of that—seeing in his mind what he fancied might be happening. He wondered if he was correct about such things, but hadn’t worked up the courage to ask anyone. And who knows if they’d be honest. It was human nature to be sympathetic to those who had come upon a loss. Already three crewmen had tried to escort him “wherever he needed to go.” Despite being off duty, that had prompted him to wear his uniform. He wouldn’t be pitied. That was a cliche he’d promised himself he’d never indulge in because he understood the impulse—intended kindness—but it was just different when he was on the receiving end. He was having trouble pushing away the self-pity in his own thoughts . . . it didn’t help to have others pushing back.

  “Data here. Go ahead, Mr. DePotter.”

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but since re-engaging, there’s been a fluctuation in the drain on the white noise blanket.”

  Restless, Geordi rose and walked toward the dresser that Data rarely used. There was a mirror there . . . of little use to either man right now.

  “Ensign,” Data said, “what was the percent of flux, and was it positive or negative?”

  “Data,” Geordi interrupted, anxiously knocking a fist on his thigh, “is this really important right now?”

  “Just one more moment please, Geordi. This may indeed be important. Continue, Mr. DePotter.”

  DePotter chanted on with his scientific findings—a drone of techno-babble that was irritating Geordi right now, and he wondered if that’d irritated anyone when it came from his own lips.

  “A moment ago,” DePotter said, “I registered a point zero-zero-two percent decrease in the drain. It may be insignificant, sir, except that this is the first drop or surge since we’ve been monitoring.”

  There was a pause, then from Data: “Intriguing. What is the status of the Klingon vessel?”

  “Sir?”

  “Scan the Klingon vessel for any activity, Ensign, and keep me informed of anything you find, no matter how unremarkable you believe it to be.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Data out.”

  Geordi heard the communicator chirp off.

  “Now,” Data said, “what would you like to know?” Geordi shook his head. Something was wrong here. Different. He couldn’t put his finger on what exactly, and maybe there was really nothing. Maybe he was just disoriented from his “newfound” blindness. Maybe.

  Or maybe when something feels wrong, it is.

  “Data, you keep saying that Commander Riker and Deanna may have been abducted or killed by the Klingons, and you’re scanning their ship as if they’re already there, but there’s no evidence—”

  “One need not have conclusive evidence to form a hypothesis.”

  They’d had this conversation three times since Geordi had awakened, and Data had indulged him each time. Unfortunately, every discussion was the same: Data with a logical argument and a shaky premise. That was the problem—since when did Data have shaky premises?

  “The Klingons do have a history of such covert operations, my friend.”

  Geordi shot past the desk and began to pace the room. Hopefully Data hadn’t moved anything since the last time he’d been here.

  “This is nuts, Data,” he said angrily. “There’s nothing to base it on. What motive would they have to do anything like this?”

  As if anticipating the question, perhaps because Geordi had asked before, Data began, “If they are hiding something on the planet, which may be the cause of the drain on our white noise blanket, then they would have motive to assure that no one finds whatever they wish to conceal. Commander Riker and Counselor Troi may have stumbled upon whatever that may be.”

  Geordi huffed out an angry breath. “What if they’re not hiding anything?”

  “Then,” Data said, “they have nothing to fear by answering my questions and submitting to an inspection.”

  The headache that was now absent, Geordi would have gladly accepted back in exchange for this warped twist of events. “Data, none of that suggests why Worf would have anything to do with the Klingons’ plans.”

  “He is a Klingon.”

  “So?” Geordi snapped angrily.

  There was another pause from Data, and the silence sounded like the android’s version of frustration. He was obviously searching for a way to get his point across.

  “Geordi,” he began, “every race has specific traits that are often unique. The Klingons do not value life in the same manner as you and I and the Hidran.”

  If Geordi could have gored Data with a glare he would have—and who knows, mayb
e he did. “The Hidran? What do they have to do with Klingon values? Or Worf’s for that matter? Worf was raised on Earth, Data. About seven thousand kilometers from where I was raised.” He crooked a thumb at his own chest. “Our personalities are different—our values are not. Worf would defend the philosophy of the Federation to his death.”

  “Or to the death of another, yes? Perhaps that is what he thought he was doing. In any case,” Data said, and it sounded so detached—“he also has loyalties to the Klingons, and he is not to be trusted.”

  There was no other term for this . . . it was just plain insane.

  “You’re talking bigotry, Data, and I can’t believe it. You’re not being rational.”

  “Geordi, it is not bigotry to see the historical fact that the Klingons are not trustworthy. And it is not bigotry to see the historical fact that Worf would murder because of his nature as a Klingon. I need not remind you that Lieutenant Worf once refused to donate his ribosomes to save the life of a Romulan prisoner.”

  Every muscle in Geordi’s back was tense with frustration and fatigue. He had awakened into a dark world where everything had changed.

  “Data,” Geordi said between clenched teeth, “there is a big difference between refusing to sacrifice for someone who you don’t believe deserves it and murdering someone in cold blood.”

  “Death for any reason is permanent. The Hidran might say that Klingon neglect is murder.”

  Geordi pulled in a deep breath and tried to settle his emotions. If Data had said Worf was not to be trusted and had backed that up with facts that would have been one thing—but this seemed so . . . un-Data: poorly conceived, not fully thought out . . . every argument was logical, but all were built on a foundation of confused quicksand.

  Data might be damaged. That would explain much —from the absurd notions about Worf and the Klingons to forgetting that Geordi couldn’t see a nod.

  “Data, I think I’d like to have Engineering check you out, run a series of diagnostics.”

  “For what reason? I run a self-diagnostic twice daily.”

  Yeah, and I’ll bet a month’s pay that something’s wrong there too.

  “Just indulge me, huh, Data?”