Star Trek: TNG Indstinguishable From Magic

by David A. McIntee

  “Being the power behind their throne, or even using their materials for our own use, is one thing. Giving a Klingon control of this ship is another. And she is working for the Federation crew.”

  “Much as I hate to admit it, we did cooperate with the Federation against the Dominion—” Sela reminded him.

  “We sent ships to aid theirs, and we had a few people placed on Federation vessels. Again, that’s one thing. Having Federation people rooting through our systems, on our ships . . . that’s another matter. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re defending the idea.”

  “Not as surprised as I am, Commander. Believe me, there can be few in the fleet who despise Starfleet as much as I do.” Sela held Varaan’s gaze. “It’s an irony, isn’t it, Commander?”

  “I’ve seen a lot of ironies in my life. Which did you have in mind?”

  “You were just thinking about my . . . relationship, with Starfleet.”

  “Your mother was Starfleet,” Varaan said.

  “An organization only, not a species. They don’t call me half-blood because my mother was a Starfleet lieutenant. They call me half-blood because she was human.”

  “It must rankle.”

  “Being a half-blood?” She knew that wasn’t what he meant, and that he meant being called the name. “Yes. Not a moment goes by that I don’t feel the taint of my mother’s blood. In every breath I take, in the sound of my own voice . . .”

  “In the name they call you?”

  She laughed. “Half-blood. Like the glass is half full. But the glass is full, Varaan. Full.” He thought, then nodded. “Of Sela’s blood. Her own.”

  La Forge sidled closer to Guinan, at the back of the command deck. “Guinan . . . These antibody ships, could they be the . . . what was it? The Valken?”

  Guinan thought for a moment. “They could be. But I don’t think so.”

  “Instinct?”

  “More or less. I got the impression from the context of what they were saying that Valken was synonymous with . . . finality. Death.”

  “You mean something inimical, fatal.”

  “I mean something culturally representative of a final end. As far as I can tell, the Valken is, or are, their Grim Reaper. The more I think about the context of what they were saying, the clearer it is that they weren’t talking about a being or a ship or a species.”

  “You mean it was more of a cultural term for them?”

  “Exactly. The Valken wasn’t some creature or alien or person. The Valken is . . . the other side.”

  “You mean an afterlife? Shakespeare’s undiscovered country, from whose bourne no traveler returns?”

  “Well, in a negative view, yes.”

  “Hell.”

  “Their interpretation of it. Hell, or just oblivion.”

  Tomalak’s Fist reverberated under a shower of plasma bolts. “Shields down to twenty percent! Another half dozen hits and we’ll start taking hull damage.”

  “Qat’qa, get this thing moving!” La Forge ordered. “Worf keeps telling me at his mok’bara sessions that the best block is to not be there when the strike arrives.”

  “Excellent advice, sir,” Qat’qa shouted back. “But this piece of Romulan degH handles like a targ that’s swallowed an anvil.” Despite her words, and the situation, her tone sounded terrifyingly cheerful.

  “Target the planetoid,” Sela ordered. “Scan for any energy sources.”

  “What good will targeting the planet do?” La Forge asked

  “It’s a life-form, isn’t it?”

  “So?”

  “If it lives, it can die,” Sela stated.

  “How?”

  “It must have central organs of some kind. Something analogous to a heart or lungs or a brain.”

  Savar’s nostrils flared slightly as he looked at Sela. “We have determined that the life-form is, in essence, a brain only. A conglomeration of neurons, axons, and dendrites. It has no heart or lungs as we would understand the term. It does not need them.”

  “Then it must have ganglia, or some kind of central nerve plexus.”

  “Almost certainly, but they will be deep within the planet.”

  “Savar has a point, Sela,” La Forge said. “The planetary crust and mantle are hundreds of miles thick. Your disruptors just don’t have the power to cut that deeply into it.”

  “We must do something,” she snarled.

  The Romulan sickbay was more spacious, and almost as advanced as that of the Challenger. Doctor Ogawa was curious about a lot of the gleaming black and silver equipment, but was polite enough not to interfere with it. All she was really interested in was checking up on the wounded and especially Scotty. She had attached another neurogenic patch to the back of his hand and the Romulan doctor had allowed her to give him a much belated cellular regenerator treatment.

  Ogawa didn’t think it had worked, and she could see, in his eyes, that he knew.

  Guinan came in, and sat beside Scotty. “Ribs?” Alyssa asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How are things going on the bridge?”

  “Sela wants to target the living planet. Geordi doesn’t think it’ll work.”

  “And even if they did, it wouldn’t be a good idea.” Ogawa immediately called the bridge to say so.

  Chairman Sela didn’t sound happy to be interrupted. “Is that your considered medical opinion, Doctor Ogawa? I thought you were a physician, not a geologist.”

  “I’m just trying to tell you to think about what happens when a body is attacked.”

  “It produces antibodies, which are the problem we’re trying to deal with.”

  “And if that antibody production isn’t working, and the body is further attacked, it will produce even more antibodies. A bombardment of the surface won’t stop them. At best it would make no difference, because hundreds of miles of rock would prevent it from even noticing that it was being attacked, and if it did notice, we’d be a lot worse off.”

  On the bridge, Qat’qa ignored the debate, and concentrated on throwing the ship around in ways its designers had never envisioned in their worst nightmares.

  “Still,” La Forge said slowly, “mapping its activity, and looking for nerve clusters and vulnerable points isn’t entirely a bad idea. If nothing else, we might be able to correlate which areas are being used with the movements of the antibody vessels, and that might allow us to predict their arrival and their tactics.”

  “Sensible,” Varaan agreed, nodding to his science officer.

  Scotty sat quietly, waiting for Alyssa to return her attention to him. “Alyssa.”

  “Scotty, I’d like to try the cellular therapy again—”

  He held up one hand, and locked his sad eyes with hers. “Tell me honestly,” he said softly, so no one else could hear. “The treatment isn’t going to work again, is it?”

  She stuttered slightly. “The . . . Anything’s poss—”

  “Honestly. Please.”

  Her eyes dipped toward the floor and the fringe of her hair trembled slightly. It barely qualified as a movement at all, but it was enough for Scotty. “You missed too many,” she whispered. “And the conditions on the planet—the thin air, the heat—have only exacerbated the problem.”

  Scotty tried to ignore the tremble he felt in his ribs, and the moistness in his eyes. It wouldn’t do, and he wasn’t about to give the Romulans the satisfaction either. “Can you give me something that’ll hold me together for a couple of hours?”

  Ogawa fetched a hypo in silence, and administered it. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to talk to Geordi.” He managed a faint smile. “Goodbye lass, and thank you for bein’ the finest starship CMO of your generation. And the finest nurse.” He stood. “Thank Guinan for me too when she wakes.”

  “You can thank her—”

  Now a tear rolled down his cheek. “No, I can’t.” And then he walked out of the Romulan sickbay.

  Tomalak’s Fist hurtled around the planet like a mad bull i
n a china shop, Qat’qa sending it weaving and spinning, ducking between the antibody craft, while Nog and Tornan competed to let fly the flashiest shots.

  Plasma bolts and disruptor shots sliced through the atmosphere to catch low-flying antibodies unawares, and stabbed into the darkness to trigger the most beautiful and briefest blooms of energy.

  It was magnificent. Qat’qa was a joy to watch as she swayed at the helm as if she was lost in playing a concerto, but it was becoming clear to everyone that it couldn’t last forever.

  48

  Scotty stood alone on the step up to the Romulan transporter pad when La Forge ran into the room. “Scotty, what the hell are you doing? Alyssa was almost—” He skidded to a halt when he saw the silver tear-streak that scarred the old miracle-worker’s mask of Celtic grimness. “No,” he said bluntly, and hollowly.

  “The fold has to be collapsed, Geordi.” They both knew what that meant.

  “I know but—”

  “And it has to be collapsed after this ship has gone back through.”

  “Vol and I have been talking about this. We’ll program the Challenger’s computer to—”

  Scotty shook his head of tousled white hair. “No point, laddie. The failsafes for what we’re going to do are hardwired into the ODN circuitry, and then the dilithium cradle will have to come out. It’ll take a strong pair of hands to physically pull the circuits out in order to disable the safeties and trigger the collapse.”

  “You’ve got a hologrid in engineering in place of the master systems display. We could activate an EMH—”

  “No.” Scotty was calm, smiling. “This is my ship, and my responsibility.”

  “Actually, Scotty, it’s my ship,” La Forge pointed out.

  “And you are a serving Starfleet officer, of great value to the service. I, on the other hand, am a dying old man, and, what’s more, a civilian. That means I’m not in the chain of command, and ye canna give me orders.”

  “That means I have an extra responsibility to evacuate you from danger—”

  “To a Romulan ship?” He stood, and stepped up on to the platform. “I’d say I’d rather die, but . . .”

  “Don’t joke about this! Just . . . don’t!”

  “Och, don’t worry. There’s definitely a very slim chance I’ll survive.” Scotty’s tears suggested otherwise. “You need a miracle, and where can ye find a miracle worker out here?”

  “If you think I’m going to beam you over there, you’re going to be severely disappointed.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say. That’s why I set a timer-delay before you came in. Goodbye, Geordi.” La Forge dived behind the transporter console, only to find he was locked out. “Make an honest woman of Leah. You’re made for each other.”

  And then Montgomery Scott was gone.

  Qat’qa grinned, lips peeling back from her teeth, as she sent Tomalak’s Fist hurtling into a corkscrew course between two of the antibody vessels. The ship was big and heavy, and slow to get going, but the Romulans had fitted her with huge and powerful engines that made her surprisingly fast once she was actually moving. Now, she decided, it was time to see if the Fist could deliver a punch worthy of the name.

  “Divert as much power as we can to shield the nacelles,” she shouted into the general hubbub of the bridge. Qat’qa didn’t bother listening for an acknowledgment or a query, but lined up the ship the way she wanted it as it approached the pair of antibody vessels.

  “Nacelle shielding increased by—” the amount was drowned out by alarms and yells, and a tremendous crashing that filled the bridge as one nacelle slammed down onto one antibody, and the other nacelle smashed upward into the second antibody. Both antibody vessels crumpled and flew apart, pieces of them skipping along the shields, and being flung off into space.

  Qat’qa laughed. “This is a powerful ship, Commander. I like it.”

  “Don’t get too attached to it,” Varaan said drily. “And, perhaps you’d find using the weapons more to your . . . satisfaction next time.”

  Varaan stepped closer to Sela, and they exchanged a look that Barclay would have loved for Worf to have been able to see. “Klingons,” Varaan sighed.

  “Believe me, Varaan, I know.”

  La Forge ran onto the bridge, quivering. He had tried to use the transporter to bring Scotty back, but the sly old devil had rigged it so that nothing he could do would make it work.

  “Kat!” Everyone turned, shocked at the quaver in his voice. “Set course for the Challenger, and through the static warp shell, right now!” Nobody questioned him, and Qat’qa heeled the ship around.

  In Challenger’s main engineering, Scotty was a busy man, pulling out the failsafe chips from the consoles. He could barely see the bloody things for the tears in his eyes.

  With each Isolinear chip he pulled out, he could feel the static warp shell weaken around the ship. Space was starting to slip and slide around it, and it wouldn’t be long before the breach that the Challenger had opened squeezed shut on its own.

  Scotty couldn’t let that happen, in case the fold remained. It had to be snapped with power.

  Ahead, the Challenger appeared to be receding, even though every instrument on the Romulan helm and tactical consoles said it was still in exactly the same place. Space around it was changing in a way none of them had ever seen before. It seemed to be a different shade of black, somehow, and the stars were smeared and blurry.

  La Forge’s cybernetic eyes couldn’t make much more sense of it than anyone else’s. There was a buzz to space around the Challenger, or an energetic potential of gray static, as if the universe was preparing to overlay a new picture on to that part of reality.

  Challenger herself was also beginning to distort, narrowing here and bulging there, as if the dimensions of the areas that different parts of it occupied were shifting and changing.

  Nog and Tornan kept shooting, picking off the antibody drones that tried to pursue them, while Qat’qa dodged the ones that came at the ship, without losing her line on Challenger.

  Tomalak’s Fist was beginning to shake.

  There was only the dilithium articulation frame to go. It was a metal cradle roughly the size of a crock pot, and normally it could only be removed when the power was off.

  The power in the warp reactor was still being funneled through the runabout Thames’s reactor, and there was no real intermixing going on in the Challenger’s main core, but there was enough energy in it to collapse the fold.

  Scott had accepted his own death, and yet his brain was still racing. It was a blessing and a curse. Unexpectedly, that racing mind slammed headlong into something Geordi had said.

  “Computer,” he said hurriedly, “activate EMH.” What was the point, he asked himself, of having a hologrid in engineering and only using it for bloody diagrams?

  The EMH was a Mark I, and Scotty suspected that Reg Barclay had installed it. Reg had a fondness for that model because of his dealings with Voyager’s EMH, Scotty knew.

  The EMH raised a hand, looking as if he’d never seen one before, and said, “Please state the nature of the—” He broke off and grabbed Scotty’s jaw, bobbing his head to peer into both of Scotty’s eyes. “Oh, I see. That’s, well, very very not good . . .”

  Scotty pulled the EMH’s hand off his face in annoyance. “The emergency isn’t with me, laddie. I know I’m as good as dead.”

  “I see . . . Then is there anything I can do for you while we wait? A quick hand of bridge perhaps? No, we need two more people for that—how many holograms does the engineering grid support?”

  Scotty grabbed the EMH by the collar, dragged him over to the articulation cradle, and put both his hands on it. “I’m going to the transporter room. When I call you and shout ‘EMH, now!’ you just yank that cradle right out of there. That’s all there is to it.”

  “You want me to yank your crank?”

  Scotty was already gone.

  By now everyone knew where Scotty was. The mood in the Rom
ulan command deck was somber, the conversation muted. Sela pointed to the approaching and lopsided-looking Challenger. “There’s not going to be enough room to pass by Challenger.”

  Qat’qa didn’t take her eyes off the screen. “I didn’t expect there to be.”

  “Then what . . . You can’t ram the Challenger!”

  “No need.”

  Tomalak’s Fist swooped toward the venerable Galaxy-class ship, gaining velocity as she went. Like many Romulan ships, she was designed to resemble a predatory bird, and today she dove headlong at her natural prey.

  From the bridge, Challenger appeared to be listing to one side, though this was just an effect of Qat’qa’s delicate touch on the Romulan pitch controls.

  La Forge found himself gripping the arms of his seat so hard that he thought his fingernails would buckle and crack. Glancing around the bridge, he saw that everyone was reacting the same way; temperatures raised, skin damp.

  Scotty frantically switched circuits in and out of the console in transporter room three, hoping that he was right. The problem was going to be range. Where could he transport to from halfway to Andromeda?

  The answer had struck him as he felt space distort around the ship. When the fold closed, space would return to where it should be. It would move, and maybe, just maybe, it could take him with it.

  If not, he didn’t mind. He had accepted his death, and this wasn’t, to his mind, so much an escape attempt, since he was dying anyway, but a bit of tinkering to fill his last minutes while he waited for the Romulan ship to get to safety.

  Challenger grew larger and larger, filling the viewscreen, and spreading beyond it. Gasps, curses, and maybe a few prayers were bitten off around the bridge, as people’s hearts pulsed with what they felt surely had to be their final beats.

  Exhausted, whether from the hurried work, or from Doctor Ogawa’s treatment wearing off, Scotty slumped in the center seat on the bridge and watched the Romulan ship fill Challenger’s main screen. The sight of such a leviathan hurtling toward him on a collision course gave him goose bumps, but he reminded himself that Qat’qa was at the helm, and trusted her to know what she was doing.