THE VALIANT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  It seemed like an arrangement from which both sides could only benefit. Picard hoped that it would actually work out that way.

  Greyhorse peered through the oval window at Serenity Santana and her Magnian physicians. Then he turned to Law, the medical center’s director, who stood beside him in a white lab coat.

  “This is how you treat all your patients?” he asked.

  Law, a small man with Asian features, shook his head. “Only those who can be treated this way. Direct mental stimulation is a valuable tool, make no mistake. But in many cases, we’re still forced to resort to pharmaceuticals or even scalpels.”

  On the other side of the window, Santana was lying on a narrow bed under a set of low-hanging blue lights. None of the four doctors surrounding her was actually touching the woman. Instead, they seemed to be leaning over her, eyes closed, focusing on an invisible process.

  “What’s your success rate using this kind of procedure?” Greyhorse wondered aloud, his inquiry sounding more blunt than he had intended.

  Law smiled. “Very high, I’m pleased to say. More than ninety-eight percent. And we are constantly trying to improve on that.” He watched his colleagues work on Santana. “Of course, in the present case, the problem was a little more complicated, since the patient’s injury took place days ago and had already been treated in other ways.”

  The ship’s surgeon looked at the smaller man. “Are you saying I actually set you back?”

  The colonist shrugged. “Just a little. The important thing is that Serenity will be fine.”

  “You sound as if you know her,” Greyhorse observed.

  “I do,” said Law. “She was a playmate of my eldest daughter. But then, most people in Magnia know each other, if only by family or reputation. After all, Doctor, we’re a small community. It’s only recently that our population has begun to nudge a hundred thousand.”

  “In the city, you mean?”

  The Magnian smiled again. “Very few people live outside the city. Despite the complications created by our telepathic abilities, we have come to enjoy the feeling of having others in close proximity.”

  Greyhorse didn’t understand. “It seems to me that proximity would tend to preclude privacy.”

  “Not here,” Law told him.

  * * *

  Picard saw Simenon’s blood-red eyes narrow in disbelief. “You promised them what?” he spat.

  The second officer, who was sitting on the other side of the lounge’s black, oval table, frowned at the engineer’s response. “I made available our technical expertise to help them repair their shield generators. It seemed like an eminently reasonable offer, given their willingness to come up with the parts we need.”

  Simenon harrumphed. “You call it reasonable to put your crew in the hands of the same people who led you into an ambush?”

  Picard regarded the Gnalish, one of three individuals whom he had invited to this meeting. The other two were Jomar and Vigo, the acting weapons chief, who sat on either side of Simenon.

  “It is true,” said the second officer, “that we may be placing the fox in charge of the hen house. Nonetheless, I am inclined to trust the Magnians’ intentions in this regard.”

  “After what they did to us?” the engineer asked.

  Picard nodded. “Shield Williamson could have denied his people’s role in the ambush, but he chose not to do so. He told me what they had done and why, without pulling any punches.”

  Simenon’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t try to interrupt. The second officer took that as a good sign.

  “Furthermore,” he said, “Williamson could have refrained from mentioning his mixed feelings about the Federation—but again, he chose the path of honesty.” He leaned forward in his seat. “I believe the Magnians will hold up their end of the bargain, Lieutenant. And I also believe that my people will be safe on the planet’s surface.”

  The chief engineer folded his scaly arms across his chest, obviously still somewhat skeptical of the colonists’ motives. “You’re the one in command,” he rasped, recognizing the fact if not quite approving of it.

  Next, Picard turned to Vigo. “You have been sending data as to what parts we require to bring our weapons systems back up to snuff?”

  The Pandrilite nodded. “I have, sir.”

  “And the Magnians’ response?”

  “They don’t have anything like them on hand,” said Vigo. “However, they’re confident they can manufacture what we need in short order.”

  “Excellent,” Picard replied. Last, he looked to the Kelvan. “I have not forgotten your concerns about dealing with the Magnians, Jomar. And as you are not technically a member of this crew, I am not in a position to give you orders. However, you are our expert in vidrion technology, which the colonists need desperately if they are to withstand the Nuyyad’s next attack. With that in mind, I hope you will honor the agreement I made.”

  The Kelvan’s stare was as blank as ever. For a moment, he remained silent. Then he said, “I will help.”

  It didn’t quite answer Picard’s question. But under the circumstances, he supposed it would have to do.

  Chapter 12

  A spike?” Picard echoed. “In her brain waves?”

  On the other side of Greyhorse’s desk, the doctor nodded. “It was difficult to miss, believe me. And it began before we were hit with enemy fire, so it couldn’t have been a reaction to the battle itself.”

  “What are you saying?” asked the second officer.

  “It’s just a theory, of course,” Greyhorse noted. “But when I saw the spike, it occurred to me that Santana might have been communicating with the other colonists.”

  “Even in her comatose state?” Picard wondered.

  The doctor nodded. “It’s the most viable explanation. I would’ve mentioned it sooner, but there wasn’t a chance to do so. I was too busy rushing my patient down to the planet’s surface.”

  “I understand,” said the second officer.

  He considered the implications—and didn’t like what he found himself thinking. “Doctor Greyhorse . . . you mentioned earlier that Ms. Santana’s coma might have been self-induced.”

  “That’s correct,” Greyhorse confirmed.

  “Is it also possible that she was never in a coma in the first place—and only gave the appearance of it?”

  The doctor mulled it over. “According to my instruments, the woman was definitely in a coma. And just a little while ago, in the Magnians’ medical center, I saw their doctors working on her—which wouldn’t have been necessary if she were just faking it.”

  “What sort of work were they doing?”

  Greyhorse shrugged. “They were using the power of their minds.”

  “Just standing there?”

  “Yes,” said the doctor.

  “Which, if you were a suspicious person, you might have discounted as window dressing.”

  Greyhorse looked at Picard. “You’re suggesting that their procedure was a sham, Commander? A show for my benefit?”

  “I am not suggesting anything,” said the second officer. “I am merely bringing up the question.”

  The doctor’s dark eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand. I thought you trusted the Magnians.”

  Picard sighed. “I am so inclined, yes. However, in the position I now occupy, I feel compelled to consider all the angles.”

  Including the angle that assumed he was wrong about Shield Williamson . . . and that he was placing his people in deadly danger.

  Not for the first time, the commander wished he had the benefit of Captain Ruhalter’s input. But the captain was in a long, coffinlike capsule in one of their cargo bays, pending their return to the Federation, and in no position to offer advice.

  “Thank you for your input,” he told Greyhorse.

  “It’s my job,” the physician reminded him.

  Yes, thought Picard. Just as it’s my job to see to it we’re not caught by surprise a second time.

  Captain’s lo
g, supplemental. Despite the questions that have been raised concerning the Magnians in and Serenity Santana in particular, I am still willing to trust them. Even as I speak, the colonists are manufacturing critical replacement parts for our propulsion system, phaser banks and shield generators. In exchange, we are applying our own expertise to the rebuilding of the several deflector stations that form a perimeter around Magnia, making those installations even more effective than before. I’m on my way to the planet’s surface to see how the work is progressing.

  Picard tapped his combadge, automatically ending his log entry, and entered the Stargazer’s main transporter room.

  Vandermeer was the operator on duty. Nodding to the woman, the second officer crossed the floor to the transporter platform and took his place there. Then he turned back to Vandermeer and said, “Energize.”

  The next thing he knew, he was standing in a grassy valley full of rocky gray outcroppings, dwarfed by one of the Magnians’ shield generators. Rising at least a hundred and fifty meters into the air, the device looked like a child’s ice cream cone—minus the ice cream.

  The nuclear reactor that powered the device was located several hundred meters underground, where the Starfleet officer couldn’t see it. Fortunately, there wasn’t a problem with the reactor; the problem was with the mechanism that converted the reactor’s energy into a stream of polarized gravitons and projected them out into space.

  A group of four was laboring at the squat, squared-off base of the generator, where an access panel had been removed. Three of the four were Magnians; the fourth was Simenon, who was showing the colonists how to alter their equipment to produce vidrion particles.

  Teams were working on the city’s five other shield generators as well. They hoped to have all six locations producing vidrions as well as gravitons by the time the Nuyyad returned.

  As on the Stargazer, the retrofit process looked to be a tedious one. However, if it bought the colonists another few minutes in the upcoming confrontation, it would be well worth it.

  Picard’s hair lifted in the rising wind, a harbinger of the blue-gray storm clouds piling up behind the pastel skyline of Magnia. The birds that had circled the splendid towers in twos and threes earlier in the day were gone, having fled to more secure positions.

  They knew a storm was coming, the second officer reflected. They just didn’t know how fierce a storm it would be. But then, he had a storm of his own to worry about.

  He approached Simenon without the engineer seeming to notice him. “How are we doing?” he asked, his voice echoing.

  Simenon turned and stared at him blankly for a moment. Then he held up a scaly hand as if asking for Picard’s forbearance, closed his eyes, and concentrated on something.

  Never having seen him act that way before, Picard became concerned. Just as he was about to hike up the hill and try to rouse him, the Gnalish opened his eyes again.

  The second officer studied him. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Simenon snorted. “I’m fine. I was just trying to show our friends here how to link a couple of EPS circuits.”

  Picard looked at him. “You were . . . showing them . . .?”

  The engineer scowled. “Telepathically, of course.”

  “Ah,” said the second officer, as understanding dawned.

  It made perfect sense, now that he thought about it. In a telepathic society, teamwork would bypass the spoken word. He was a little surprised that an alien mind fit in so well with the others, but he was hardly an expert on the subject.

  “Come down here and bring me up to speed,” said Picard.

  Simenon seemed reluctant to abandon his work, but he made his way down the hillside nonetheless. When he reached the second officer, he said, “You don’t really want to know how the work is going . . . do you?”

  “I do,” Picard told him. “But as you seem to have guessed, I also want to know about your coworkers. No doubt, you’ve gotten some insights into them by virtue of their telepathic contact.”

  The engineer looked back over his shoulder at the Magnians. “I’ve gotten some insights, all right. I’ve learned that they’re a private bunch, as Eliopoulos told us. They don’t like to expose any more of themselves than they have to. But I’ve seen enough of them to say they’re also among the most courageous people I’ve ever met.”

  Picard looked at him. “Courageous . . .?”

  Simenon nodded his lizardlike head. “I know. Just a few hours ago, I was saying you were crazy to get involved with them, and now I’m extolling their virtues. But it’s true about their courage. The Nuyyad may be on their way with an armada at this very moment, but these people don’t let it faze them. They just go about their business as if they were fixing cooking equipment instead of shield projectors.”

  A glowing assessment, the second officer reflected. Perhaps too glowing. By the engineer’s own admission, he was seldom inclined to admit that he had been in error. Yet here he was, admitting it—and with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, no less.

  Simenon indicated the open access panel with a gesture. “If there’s nothing else, I ought to get back to work.”

  “By all means,” said Picard.

  But as he watched the engineer climb the hillside, he had to wonder . . . was his crew really in danger of being influenced by the colonists? Was that something he needed to be concerned about? Or with an entire ship full of people to look after, was he just being a mother hen?

  As he weighed the possibilities, his combadge beeped. Tapping it, he said, “Picard here.”

  “This is Ben Zoma, Commander. Shield Williamson just contacted us. He wants to know if we’re ready to beam up his engineers.”

  The second officer had expected the call. After all, the Magnians couldn’t supply the Stargazer with parts until they saw firsthand what kind of damage had been done.

  He frowned, suddenly reluctant to give the colonists access to his ship. If his suspicions bad any basis in reality . . .

  But what was the alternative? To refuse the assistance they had risked so much to obtain? To spurn what they so desperately needed if they were to survive and warn the Federation?

  “Inform Mr. Williamson that we’re ready,” Picard told his friend. “But see to it that his people are provided with an escort everywhere they go. And I mean everywhere.”

  “Acknowledged,” said Ben Zoma, in a tone that assured the second officer that his order would be taken seriously.

  “And beam me back up as well,” Picard added. He gazed at Simenon and his Magnian coworkers, who were still cooperating without the benefit of vocal expression. “I believe I’ve seen all I needed to see.”

  Pug Joseph watched the trio of colonists make their way past the brig, escorted by Ensign Montenegro. There were two men and a woman, all very human-looking, all dressed in the same green jumpsuit that Santana had worn.

  And all curious enough to glance in the direction of the incarcerated mutineers as they walked by.

  “He’s making a mistake, you know,” Werber announced with unconcealed disdain. “A big mistake.”

  Joseph glanced at the deposed weapons chief, who had walked up to the inner edge of his cell’s translucent electromagnetic barrier. Werber’s eyes looked hard with hatred and resentment.

  “I beg your pardon?” said the security officer.

  “Your friend Picard,” the prisoner elaborated. “He’s making a mistake. That Santana woman couldn’t be trusted—we all know that now. And if her people are anything like her, they can’t be trusted either.”

  Joseph frowned at Werber’s remark. Since Santana had played him for a fool, he had come to resent her as much as the prisoner did—maybe more. However, he wasn’t going to discuss his feelings with someone he was guarding. That was how he had gotten himself into trouble the last time.

  From now on, the security officer promised himself, he was just going to do what was expected of him and leave the conversations to other people. “Whatever you say,” he said.
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  Werber swore under his breath. “You know I’m right. And you know if I were free, I’d do something about it.”

  “But you’re not,” Joseph reminded him.

  The prisoner paused for a moment. “You are,” he said at last. “Free, I mean. You could stop these people . . . maybe even stop Picard.”

  “That would be mutiny,” the security officer noted.

  Pernell, who occupied the cell next to Werber’s, laughed at the comment. Joseph frowned at him.

  “Would it?” asked Werber. “Or would it be an act of heroism? You know what they say, Lieutenant . . . history is written by the victors.”

  Joseph didn’t say anything in return. He just listened to the Magnians’ footfalls recede in the distance.

  “Admit it,” said Werber. “Seeing those people gets under your skin the same way it gets under mine. We’ve been burned, both of us—and no matter what, we don’t want to get burned again.”

  Still, the security officer didn’t answer him.

  It wasn’t that he couldn’t find a kernel of truth in what Werber was saying. It was just that Pug Joseph wasn’t a mutineer.

  At least, he didn’t think he was.

  Picard looked around the chamber into which he had materialized. It was high—at least two stories tall—with pale orange walls, a vaulted ceiling, a white marble floor, and fluted blue columns.

  It was also the location, buried deep in the heart of Magnia, from which the city’s half-dozen shield generators were operated.

  In the center of the chamber was a steel-blue, hexagonal control device that was twice the second officer’s height. Each of its six sides featured an oval screen, a keypad, and a sleek attached chair.

  Five of the chairs were occupied by Magnians. The sixth was occupied by an equally human-looking figure, though his loose-fitting black togs and unruly red hair marked him as Jomar.

  Some of the colonists glanced at Picard, then went back to their work. However, the Kelvan seemed not to notice him. He was too busy tapping data into his keypad.