FOREIGN FOES

by Dave Galanter

  “Where have you two been?” Beverly demanded. Riker sighed. “There’s an entire underground planet to Velex. Kilometer after kilometer of machines and rooms . . . all self-animated. Maybe. We didn’t see anyone.”

  “Who did all this to you then?” Beverly was now back working on the tangle of flesh that was Riker’s calf.

  “Some machines were very self-animated.” Riker glanced to Deanna. “But they did have help.” He smiled weakly. “Dr. Troi here played arc-welder with my leg.”

  With a plate of bread and a pitcher of water in hand, Halford strutted back to the table. She set the plate down, found two glasses, and even poured for Riker and Deanna. “I’m afraid this is all that’s left,” she said.

  Riker nodded a salute. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Secure the shuttle and report back for security duty.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” the woman said, and walked back toward the hall’s main doors.

  Both Deanna and Riker tore large chunks of bread from the loaf. Riker took a long swig of the cool water. He’d never tasted anything better. There was something to drink on the shuttle back, but nothing so cold and natural and thirst quenching. He gulped down the bread, barely chewing, and was already feeling like a new man before he began his second piece.

  “Lieutenant Worf, reporting, sir.”

  Riker looked up, crumbs dropping from the corners of his mouth. “Fill me in,” Riker mumbled, stuffing his mouth again.

  “We have not yet contacted the Hidran regarding the captain,” Worf said. “As soon as I released myself from protective custody, your rescue was reported and I decided you might handle the situation better in the Hidran’s eyes. If you’d like me to return to custody—”

  “No, Mr. Worf,” Riker said, taking a gulp of water and another chunk of the bread. “I’ll need your help.” He would have risen but Beverly had hold of his leg. “We couldn’t reach the ship. Halford said that’s been a problem.”

  “Communications have inexplicably failed intermittently throughout the day. We believe it is because of the white-noise blanket.”

  “Wait a minute!” Beverly rose, rechecking her tricorder and taking another reading. “This can’t be . . .”

  “What?” Riker demanded. Why did doctors do that—keep their patients in the dark to wonder which limb would be falling off unexpectedly? “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re healing very quickly all of a sudden.”

  Shrugging, Riker said, “So you’re good. We knew that—”

  “No . . .” Beverly began, mystified, running her scanner over Riker, then Deanna. “Deanna checks out normal—her problems were minimal, fatigue . . . but you shouldn’t be doing this well.”

  “Sorry.”

  Beverly’s brow wrinkled. “No, Will, I mean I haven’t done enough yet. I didn’t give you anything to accelerate healing.”

  Crusher ran her scanner over them each again, then she reached up and snatched the chunk of bread from Riker’s hand. “Give me that a minute.”

  “Hey—”

  Worf stepped closer to Riker. “The Velexian grain is supposed to have some mystical health-enhancing effects.”

  His bread now the center of attention, Riker looked longingly at Deanna’s slice as Crusher ran her tricorder over his a second time.

  “I don’t believe in magic,” Beverly said.

  “Do you believe in feeding the hungry?” Riker said dryly.

  “Oh,” the doctor pulled out her hypospray again. “Here,” she said, pushing the spray into his neck. “This is a nutritional substitute.”

  Riker frowned. “Mmmm. Delicious.” Strength returning to him nonetheless, he turned back to Worf. “I want all available security to report here. I want the Hidran’s area surrounded, both inside and outside the building.”

  “If they were to break through the outer wall,” Worf began, “the structure would crumble, perhaps on top of them. This hall is the only standing native Velexian building, and is estimated to be more than twenty thousand years old. It is not sound enough for such a rupture.”

  Riker nodded and stood. “That doesn’t mean they won’t try it. I want the bases covered.” He looked down at his tattered uniform and grimaced, but knew his appearance was the least of his problems. “Also, there should be a subspace communications center around here. Find it, try to reach the ship. It should have the strength to break through the white-noise jammer.”

  “Aye, sir,” Worf said.

  Riker looked back to Deanna. “You okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Find anything interesting, Doctor?” Riker asked.

  “Very,” Beverly mumbled. “I can’t scan through this bread. I can’t get past the individual grains.”

  “Neither could Dr. Hollitt’s equipment,” Riker offered.

  Beverly stood and turned toward them. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”

  “If you have a conclusion, Doctor, spit it out,” Riker said. “We don’t have time . . .”

  “I don’t have one yet. I have a guess. Where is Dr. Hollitt? With her help and the scanning equipment I brought earlier we might be able to prove something.” She held up the chunk of bread. “This is not magic.”

  “Do you believe in nothing mystical, Doctor?” Worf asked.

  Beverly flashed her eyes at Riker, then at Worf. “I do—when I can see the proof, and the equipment it was tested on.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “SAUCER SEPERATION in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.”

  Only Data could have stopped the separation . . . and he was the one who wanted it.

  So did Geordi, really . . . he just didn’t want to be trapped on the saucer where he’d be helpless to act. And he had to act.

  He moved his hand over the wall and found the control panel that would open the door. On that door there was a sign—he couldn’t see the letters, but knew what they said: “DECK 8 PHASER AUTOMATION: RESTRICTED ACCESS.”

  His fist tight, he punched the door’s control panel, loosening it so he could snap off the cover and get its guts. His fingers fumbled inside—too long. Everything took too long. A minor accomplishment: to be able to navigate around the ship blind. But if he didn’t put that skill to use more quickly, in a manner that would change the situation, then it was just a mean ingless achievement. What value was there in a skill if it met no end?

  A rumble vibrated through the ship. Geordi knew the feeling: the saucer unlocking itself from the battle-section and pulling away. Someone was on the main bridge . . . Ro or someone, and would take care of the saucer and its civilians. He imagined the lie that person was told by Data, how they probably didn’t doubt his veracity for a moment. Data certainly wasn’t above lying—any intelligent being understood that a lie could be a wise course of action from time to time—perhaps even moral. Who, when asked by a murderer, would describe the location of their family? Who would tell an enemy the entire truth? Only a fool.

  While Data was most certainly not himself—he was no fool.

  Finally, sweat dripping down his neck, he fingered the override control and the doors swished open.

  He ventured into the alcove and jumped through the doors quickly, then stopped himself, trying to get a bead on where he was standing and where the controls he wanted would be.

  Counting off paces to the main console, he was abruptly stopped by a wall that shouldn’t have been there. He leapt back, bumped into something—a table, and grabbed on to it before he lost his balance.

  Geordi straightened and put his hand out to touch the wall. He felt the cool plastic-like smoothness of a computer touch-pad. “Computer, what room is this?”

  “Deck eight, section twelve: Recreation room four.”

  Angry, Geordi sent the chair that had been at his side flying across the room. It crashed, clattering against other chairs and perhaps a table. The feeling was a good one, a release, but was fleeting. He needed help—had to get to Engineering. Cheng would help.

  Pulling in a deep breath, he
retraced his steps through the doors and back into the corridor. Left? Right? He’d forgotten. Deck eight . . . section twelve . . . Where was everyone? General quarters—that’s right. He’d let his frustration get the best of him and was now paying the price: a muddled mind.

  Think!

  He turned left and rushed up the empty corridor, his open arm outstretched, fingertips gliding along the inner wall for guidance. When his fingers didn’t scrape the wall he knew there was the alcove for a doorway, and he counted those . . .

  Five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight—a corridor . . . nine . . . ten . . .

  Dropping his arm, he stopped. “Ten” was a Jefferies tube. Of course, he also knew the rec room back there was supposed to be phaser automation control. All he needed to be was off by one step, one pace, one count, and he could do more harm than good. Or he could slow himself down into uselessness.

  He reached out, felt the cold, metal rungs of the Jefferies ladder, and knew there was no miscalculation this time.

  Slowly he made his way down the tube, one rung after another, flipping a hatch when necessary, counting his steps as he went. There was no way he’d allow Data to trap him in a turbolift, and the Jefferies tubes would allow him access to the guts of the ship if he needed to hide. Even without a communicator, Geordi was traceable if Data wanted to make the effort . . .

  This was no way to function, though—he couldn’t keep his career as engineer of this ship if he were to remain blind. He wouldn’t be drummed out of the service, but he would be given some desk job, or a teaching job . . . And that wasn’t what he’d signed up for.

  Not until then had the thought occurred to Geordi: What would become of Data? What if his damage was so severe that his Starfleet career was over? And what would that mean? Data wouldn’t be relegated to a desk. What would become of a sick android that couldn’t be repaired? Imprisonment . . . or worse—dismantlement.

  Geordi tried to shake that thought from his mind. Such a consequence could be considered later—there were lives at stake now, and that was the most pressing situation.

  The thrumming of the ship—he knew every sound—told him the saucer was totally detached and that the battle-section was probably maneuvering free and clear.

  He reached Engineering deck and tried to get his bearings again.

  Turning on his heel as he jumped off the ladder and onto the deck, he heard what sounded like—yelling!

  Straining to listen as he moved toward the door, suddenly he heard hissing.

  Gas.

  Data was flooding the ship with an anesthizine. Had to be.He must’ve found out Cheng was helping me. Knew he couldn’t rely on the crew to help him any longer—knew I would be here—

  Geordi let out a dry cough, covered his mouth, and tried to think of an escape as the smell of the gas began to overtake him. It burned his sightless eyes and scraped against this nose and throat.

  Where? Where could he escape?

  How could he escape his own breath?

  “If you do not mind me saying so, sir, I believe you are wasting your breath.” Worf nodded down the corridor toward the hatch. “They will not come through there as long as we are here, and they will not give up the captain as long as they don’t have me.”

  Riker glanced at Deanna, then shook his head. He wouldn’t consider that option. Some things were never alternatives. “Sorry, Worf. I’m not sacrificing you. And, it’s not a waste of breath so long as I’m buying time.” He tapped his comm badge. “Riker to Captain Urosk.”

  There was a delay, then the gravel voice of the Hidran captain: “You are annoying me, Riker.”

  “My intention isn’t to annoy you, Captain.”Although it’s a respectable side effect. “My intention is only for a peaceful outcome to this situation.”

  “Give me the Klingon.”

  Riker and Worf exchanged a glance. The tall Klingon was tense, and Riker knew why. It wasn’t because Worf thought he may be forfeit—it was because he wanted the honor of being forfeit for his captain, and knew Riker wouldn’t allow it.

  “Captain Urosk—”

  “That’s my only demand, Riker. Give me the Klingon within thirty minutes, or your captain dies.”

  The frequency closed.

  Thirty minutes. Why? They were stalling for some purpose. In most hostage situations Riker had dealt with he’d had to beg for time. It was being given here.

  Riker considered his options. Enterprise couldn’t be reached—and no one knew why. That meant the security complement on the planet, a total of twenty including Barbara’s guards, was all he had. It should be enough . . . would have been if there weren’t such an important hostage being held. This type of danger was why Riker objected to Picard leading Away missions. Unfortunately, there were still certain things that only Picard could handle, and he was the captain—if he told Riker to belay his protective attitude, Riker would have to do so.

  “Deanna?” Riker nudged her. She looked better than she had an hour ago—more rested. Maybe it was the grain, but Riker doubted it. Deanna was quite the trouper. She’d even given him a reassuring smile when he and Barbara had embraced.

  “I’m not sure if Urosk means what he says,” Deanna said, her eyes etched with the pain of feeling such anger and hate. “I don’t have to tell you they’re furious enough to kill. They always have been.”

  Riker nodded. “Suggestions, Mr. Worf?” he asked, absently smoothing a tattered uniform that needed sewing rather than primping. “Aside, of course, from serving you up to the Hidran with an apple in your mouth.”

  “That would ensure the captain’s safety, sir,” Worf said.

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “It is our only alternative,” Worf said gravely.

  Riker’s eyes narrowed and he glared at the hatch across the corridor. Beyond that door was the captain. He knew Picard well. “Ours maybe . . . but not the captain’s. He may have something to say about his own fate.”

  “We cannot assume that,” Worf said.

  “We can,” Riker countered, “for at least the next thirty minutes.”

  “Will!”

  Riker swung around toward Beverly’s voice as she jogged up the corridor from the main hall. Barbara was with her, and Riker smiled a bit, then looked back to Deanna, who smiled in return.

  “We’ve found something,” Beverly said, joining Riker and Worf. Barbara came up alongside and stood opposite Deanna. “Dr. Hollitt’s grain here is very special.”

  With thirty minutes ticking quickly by, Riker grew irritated and let them all know it. “What’s so special, Doctor?” he snapped. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Barbara, her eyes dazzling with . . . well, what looked like cheer, spoke up. “We’d never tried anything as sophisticated as your medical equipment on the grain. We didn’t think it necessary—and we didn’t have it. We would use a simple tricorder on those who had eaten it, but didn’t treat the grain itself with anything other than bio-agricultural scanners.”

  Another case of not rethinking assumptions. At least Riker wasn’t the only one who made that mistake. “I understand,” he said shortly, if only a bit sympathetically. “But what did you find?”

  Pulling her hand from her pocket, Barbara held out a palm filled with the small kernels of wheat. “This isn’t grain,” she said, almost giddy.

  “Then what is it?” Riker demanded.

  “It’s the best inorganic molecular representation of an organic construct I’ve ever seen,” Beverly said.

  “I do not understand,” Worf huffed.

  “I do,” Riker said, sharing a look with Deanna and holding his stomach with one hand. “It means I just ate a lot of Rover’s cousins.”

  “Computer.”

  “Ready.”

  Data tapped a command into the battle-bridge Ops console. “Estimated duration of unconsciousness provided by anesthizine gas?”

  “Twenty-three hours, seventeen minutes.”

  He nodded approval. It was a drastic
matter, but there appeared no one left to trust. It was difficult to fathom that Geordi may be a Klingon collaborator. But he was also friends with Worf. And once before Geordi had unwittingly become a pawn in a Romulan plot. Perhaps something similar was happening here.

  There was nothing that could be done about that now, however. Ending the captain’s duress was more pressing.

  Of course, without a security team he could hardly beam aboard the Klingon vessel to search for Commander Riker and Counselor Troi, and he could hardly beam down to free the captain when the Klingon vessel needed to be watched. Data would have to deal with the Klingon vessel first—threaten to damage their vessel unless they released their captives.

  He hoped the destruction of their vessel would not be necessary. Such a waste was terrible—so illogical. However, the illogic was on their part, and if they did not comply, there was little choice. The Klingon threat had to be stopped now. If not, the Federation would be as weakened as the Hidran. How many other peaceful cultures had fallen to the Klingon threat? That was perhaps something to investigate if he could get control of their memory banks.

  Data tapped another command into his console, opening a channel to the Klingon vessel. They had been hailing since Enterprise separated, and now they would be answered.

  “Enterprise to Klingon vessel hIV SuH.”

  The main viewer flashed on. The obviously angry face of the Klingon in command of the enemy vessel appeared. “This is Lieutenant Chakba. What is the meaning of not answering our hails? Why have you prepared your ship for battle?”

  “Commander Data, in command of the Enterprise—”

  “Where is your captain?” demanded the Klingon.

  Such subterfuge. “I believe you know the answer to that,” Data said. “I am formally demanding that you return to us your captives, or risk retaliation.”

  “Have you gone insane? We are allies, not enemies! We have no captives!”

  “I have evidence to the contrary. Surrender your vessel.”

  “You are insane!”

  “May I take that as a confirmation that you do not wish to comply with my request?”