FOREIGN FOES

by Dave Galanter

  The Klingon motioned to someone off screen, then said, “You may take that as your epitaph!”

  “Very well,” Data said as he closed the channel and moved the Enterprise into a higher orbit. “I regret it has come to this.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  PICARD MOPPED HIS BROW with a sleeve and tried to breathe through his mouth. The room had filled with warm, stifling steam. The Hidran, of course, enjoyed the moist air, basked in it, and went about their work quickly. Too quickly.

  On the lab table was a line of communicators—the Starfleet comm badges as well as the Hidran hand units. They were all open and exposed, yet still functioning since Riker was able to get through.

  Riker—alive, just as Worf was. Fortune was being favorable. Would Data know all this? Could they get through to him? Perhaps no one could. If Data was as damaged as La Forge said, Riker’s obvious safety might not even register with the android. If Data had lost his rational faculty . . . well, no fact would matter. The dank air now carried the Hidran’s musty odor straight to Picard’s nose and eyes, and made them burn. Perhaps this hadn’t been the best of ideas.

  Glancing up to the ceiling, he watched small beads of water condense and shimmer in the light. The moisture darkened the cold stone, spreading until the rock was saturated. He looked down at the Hidran’s work—small and delicate . . . and quite in-suited to their long, sticky fingers.

  They needed tools, had few, but were making do disturbingly well. So far three communicators had been linked together, soldered with bits of wire and thin phaser beams. Their own disrupter-phasers were of little use here—those were for killing. Starfleet phasers could kill when necessary, but were also tools, and the Hidran took advantage of such utility. Razor thin phaser beams and microwire were their only real instruments, that and the few microscopes left in the lab.

  Picard needed a distraction . . . something to slow them down until his plan could stop them cold. Cold and wet.

  “Urosk,” he called. “What if Commander Riker refuses to give you what you want?”

  The Hidran leader looked up. “You know he will. And you know that your Klingon is no longer all I want.”

  “Yes,” Picard said gravely. “You also want to destroy every other Klingon.”

  His weapon still in hand, Urosk stalked toward him. “Not every Klingon. That would be too much to hope for. At this point I wish only to kill enough of them that Qo’noS will think twice before breaching war again.”

  “How can you know that is what they want?”

  Urosk shook his head and his tone took on a pitying quality. “I know it, as surely as I know my own soul. It is in their nature.”

  “No!” Picard snapped. “It is not in their nature.”

  The Hidran tensed, but did not bring his weapon up. Instead he spoke in a rather calm voice. “The Klingons themselves admit it’s bred into them.”

  Captain Jean-Luc Picard, who had traveled the known galaxy, met life-form after life-form, intelligent being after intelligent being, who had himself taken in part in Klingon politics, and who perhaps knew Lieutenant Worf better than anyone, knew what a lie that was.

  “No,” he insisted. “It may be their culture, ingrained into their society, but those are decisions—acts . . . of volition—which any Klingon, any conscious being, may choose to embrace or deny. Your society and culture had been ravaged by what their society once was—”

  “Still is.”

  Picard pressed on. “The point is that your culture changed because of an influence, the influence of their culture, and now you both hold similar customs.”

  Urosk’s cheeks grew ruddy with anger and he took a step back. “No! You are twisting and distorting—”

  “Listen to me, Urosk. Listen to yourself. This,” Picard said motioning around him, indicating the situation as it now stood, “it is all because of the Klingons?”

  “Yes!” Urosk hissed.

  Picard stepped closer, his eyes intent, backing the Hidran away. “The Klingons have turned your people into what they did not want to become, yes?”

  Anger contorting his expression, the Hidran captain nodded sharply.

  Picard took only a moment to glance up at the other Hidran. They were listening too now, ignoring their work. “And,” he continued, “your culture has been totally disrupted by values you never held, and by a morality you once disagreed with.”

  “What is your point, Picard?” Urosk yelled, taking another step back as Picard closed in.

  “What has happened to your nature, Captain? Has it changed?” he asked. “Or are you ignoring it in favor of a philosophy that has gripped you as it did the Klingons? Has your reaction been to fight them using your nature—that which is every intelligent being’s nature—your minds, your capacity to reason, your ability to think—or have you been fighting them with the very tools even they are coming to reject—anger, hatred and—”

  Ftsssiiittssss.

  They both spun as the row of communicators crackled with the electrical whine of overload, then flashed into flame.

  Silence followed for a moment, as Urosk looked incredulously at the sizzling mess. A drop of water fell from the ceiling into one of the communicators, making the smoldering circuit hiss and sputter.

  The Hidran captain looked again, and watched the rain—drop after drop of water that had condensed on the ceiling, only to fall back onto the Hidran’s work.

  The line of Urosk’s spine tensed and sank, not in defeat, but in action. He hissed something to his men, then swung toward Picard.

  Picard felt his own muscles tense, and he readied himself for a fight—not soon enough.

  The Hidran captain grabbed him by the neck, then lifted him off the floor. They struggled—Picard forcing a knee into the Hidran’s chest—but without leverage he had no force.

  With his free hand, Urosk seized Picard’s right arm and twisted until they both heard the crack of bone and a grunt of agony.

  Dropped back onto the bench against the wall, Picard cupped his left hand under his right elbow as his side filled with heat and pain. His hand throbbed and moving his fingers was white-hot misery.

  “Next time,” Urosk spat, “it will be your neck!”

  * * *

  “You were attacked by dogs?” Worf glowered, and his question sounded a lot more serious than the words implied.

  Riker shook his head and Deanna chuckled.

  “They’re roving machines, Worf,” Riker said. “And I’m going to guess the industry we saw down there is busy pumping out this grain.” He turned to Barbara. “Sound like everything’s beginning to fall into place?”

  Barbara shook her head. “I should have seen this coming . . . should have put it all together . . .”

  “Oh, come on,” Riker said, thinking of his own bout of jumping to conclusions. “Who doesn’t miss something once in a while?”

  “You just didn’t have the equipment,” Beverly added.

  “Even if I had, I wouldn’t have thought that the grain was inorganic. I just assumed—”

  “You did what we all do from time to time,” Riker said softly.

  Stuffing her hands into her lab coat, Barbara shook her head again. “It’s my job not to.”

  Mine too, Riker thought.

  “I think you’re all missing something,” Beverly said. “Don’t you know what this might mean?”

  Riker waited only a moment. “Obviously not, Doctor. Tell us.”

  Holding up her tricorder, she pointed to a graph on the small screen. Riker could barely read it from where he was, but it looked like his own bio-scan.

  “The grain isn’t magic,” Beverly said, “but it does seem to have the properties Barbara claims. Someone designed this—it has programing and structure, all on the molecular level. A lot like the nanites we use in certain medical procedures, but much more advanced in design and programming.”

  “I can probably still market it,” Barbara added.

  Worf sighed and shifted his phaser
from one hand to another. “This is all very interesting, but does not help us in our current situation.”

  “Agreed,” Riker said, impatient. None of this would help rescue the captain.

  “It might,” Beverly said. “It has programming, Will, just like my tricorder does. It enters the body and that programming takes over. I’m not sure how, but it obviously scans the body and takes some action to balance any system out of balance.”

  “How does it know,” Deanna asked, “what that balance is?”

  “We don’t know,” Beverly said. “I assume it scans the DNA of whoever ingests it, and then is programmed to restructure the body, or repair it, based on the genetic model it has to go on.”

  Now Riker sighed. “This is all fascinating, but—”

  “Hush and listen,” Beverly snapped. “Geordi and the Hidran Ambassador both ate the grain and both had bio-neural implants. Prosthetics aren’t written into DNA, so the grain probably thought they were foreign bodies. I’ve already scanned the Ambassador’s body. The grain-machines are still active within him. Idle, having nothing to do, but they are still ‘living,’ for lack of a better term.” All at once she took Riker’s arm and gasped. “Jean-Luc didn’t have any of the grain, did he?”

  Riker shrugged and turned to Worf.

  “He did not,” Worf said.

  Beverly released her breath in relief. “Good. The time it takes for the grain to activate seems to vary depending on the person, but if he had . . . he’d be dead by now. The grain would have recognized his artificial heart as foreign and responded the same way it did with Geordi and the ambassador . . . rejection.”

  “This is proof I did not kill Zhad,” Worf said.

  “Yes,” Beverly said. “I can prove it. The pain of the rejection, the same pain Geordi felt, was too great for Zhad, and he most likely tore out his mask in an effort to stop it.”

  Riker smiled. “This is good.”

  “I do not understand,” Worf said. “Why then did the grain not give Geordi his sight and allow the ambassador to breath?”

  “Because,” Beverly began, “that wasn’t a condition the grain read in their DNA. Geordi never had sight—it is not a malady, but a condition he has genetically. I think we can safely say the grain would heal a cut faster than the normal, but it won’t rewrite DNA code or grow you a new arm. Or—maybe it will grow you new a new arm. I don’t know. But it wouldn’t grow you one with a different number of fingers than you had before. It’s only a sophisticated antibody as far as I can see. So, the ambassador, by definition of his genetics, couldn’t breathe this atmosphere, and all the grain on this planet wouldn’t have helped him to. Location and needs weren’t listed in his DNA—only his basic physical structure was.”

  Perhaps already writing the marketing proposal to her company, Barbara added, “And any being with DNA and without synthetic parts could probably eat this quite safely.”

  Pushing out a breath, Riker glanced down the hall toward the Hidran’s hatch again. He was interested, thought he may use this information, but wasn’t sure how. That irritated him, made him anxious as if he were wasting time.

  “Why would anyone construct this?” Deanna asked. “Why disguise a machine to look so natural and biological? The machines underground didn’t look that way.”

  “No way to know,” Barbara said. “Maybe if we can access any computers underground . . . right now we’re just guessing they found it easier to ingest in this form, or maybe they wanted to keep secret the planet was industrial rather than agrarian.”

  “That would make sense,” Beverly said. “The grain is nearly impervious to sensor scans. You can’t imagine the backflips we had to go through with my medical equipment to get past the illusion that it’s just an uninteresting new grain. In any case, there’s no way to tell what their motive was for hiding it. What we need is access to the computers below the surface.”

  “We do have a more immediate problem,” Riker said, his neck tight with tension. “The Hidran are not going to lay down their arms and release the captain just because we say Zhad wasn’t killed by Worf. They believed he was without evidence. Proof to the contrary isn’t going to matter.”

  “They’d have to listen to reason, though,” Barbara said.

  Riker smiled. Perhaps a bit more patronizing that he’d wanted to. “No,” he said. “They don’t.”

  “What if we could demonstrate to them how it worked and exactly what happened,” Barbara offered. don’t.”

  Shaking his head, Worf grunted a laugh. “You’d be dead before you spoke your first sentence. You can physically force someone to take almost any action, except changing his mind. That they must do of their own accord.”

  “Computer, engage all auto systems. Accelerate to one-quarter impulse power and prepare to apply set course out of standard orbit.” Data quickly tapped commands into Ops console.

  “Acknowledged,” replied the computer.

  Data nodded. “Bring main phasers on line, and transfer full power to all offensive and defensive systems.”

  Another acknowledgment from the computer, and Data nodded again.

  “Engage course and display tactical on main screen.” Unlike humans, Data did not need the view of the actual scene as it would appear if the naked eye would view it. He preferred the tactical display with its grid and specifics.

  “Course engaged. Leaving orbit and coming about to course three-one-zero mark five.”

  On the display, Data watched the Klingon vessel’s attitude change as it prepared for an obvious maneuver out of orbit.

  Data typed quickly, moving the Enterprise to a new course. “Lock phasers on primary targets of engineering and weapons centers. Stand-by to lock phasers on secondary targets of life support and bridge operations.”

  “Phasers lock achieved.”

  Data nodded again.

  “Fire.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  ORANGE THREADS CONNECTED the Enterprise Battle Section with the Klingon Cruiser. Data’s tactical board sparkled. Each filament represented an Enterprise phaser blast that had hit and caused damage.

  “Computer, estimate damage to Klingon vessel.” “Damage to forward and rear shields, seventy-two and sixty-one percent respectively. Warp engines of Klingon vessel are overloading and being taken off line.”

  A series of beeps brought Data’s eyes off his console and back to the tactical screen. The Hidran ship had entered the fray, and was firing on the Klingon vessel as well. This was, of course, not truly within their purview, but Data could hardly fire on them in return. They were only seeking to protect themselves from the Klingon threat.

  His hands flying across the controls, Data opened a channel to the Klingon vessel and continued to fire. “Klingon cruiser—you are out-gunned and out-maneuvered. Surrender your vessel.”

  There was no response. Klingons tended not to surrender, and to Data that was a pity: they would lose. Yes, they were experienced and clever, but Data was equally experienced, and he knew that what he lacked in creativity he made up for in speed and foresight. His only limitation was the automation of ship’s systems: if something broke down, or was damaged, he could hardly go repair it himself without leaving the battle.

  Surprising . . . that no Klingon infiltrators had sabotaged the automation or weapons systems to destroy the ship when engaged. Were there limits to the Klingon’s influence? Or, more likely, they wanted to capture the Enterprise intact.

  Data assumed there was some type of mind-control taking place—perhaps that was what interfered with scans of Velex and also accounted for the drain of the white-noise broadcast.

  “Klingon Battle Cruiser is now attacking Hidran vessel,” announced the computer. “Hidran vessel is damaged on port nacelle—weapons systems down.”

  “Target Klingon cruiser’s offensive system conduit and fire repetitive photon burst,” Data ordered.

  Red globes lit up across the tactical display, connecting the Enterprise and the Klingon ship.

/>   “Direct hit,” the computer said. “Null power reading from Klingon weapons systems.”

  Data nodded and re-hailed the vessel. “Klingon cruiser, this is the Enterprise. Surrender your vessel.”

  Silence.

  “Computer, scan shield strength of Klingon cruiser.”

  “Scanning . . . overall shield strength is at forty-three per cent.”

  “Achieve phaser lock at shield generation points.”

  “Phasers: locked.”

  “Fire.”

  A pause . . . a series of tones . . . “Unable to fire.”

  Data looked up from his console. “State problem with phaser controls.”

  “There is no problem with the phaser controls.”

  Tapping at his board quickly, Data took the Battle Section into a high orbit. “Computer, run diagnostic on all offensive systems.”

  “That function is not available from this station.”

  “That is not possible.”

  “That statement is incorrect.”

  Something was wrong. Had someone escaped the anesthetic gas?

  “Computer, assure all command functions are routed to this station.”

  There was a much longer pause and a longer series of bleeps.

  “Computer, acknowledge,” Data ordered, keeping an eye on the Klingon and Hidran vessels that were unmoving on his scope.

  Another series of beeps was the computer’s only reply.

  Data’s tactical display suddenly went blank, then his phaser controls.

  He tapped in a manual override code.

  “Computer, transfer all command functions to manual control.”

  Silence—this time not from the Klingons, but from his own ship.

  “Computer, acknowledge.”

  Suddenly what was happening became clear, and Data stood.

  “Geordi.”

  Picard felt Urosk’s cold fingers around his neck again. The Hidran captain wrenched hard and brought Picard to his feet.

  Holding his broken arm lightly with his good hand, Picard refused to make a sound in pain.