The Art of the Impossible

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  “How go the negotiations, Curzon?” As usual, Sarek didn’t bother with unnecessary pleasantries.

  “Not as well as I’d like, I’m afraid. Both sides are being predictably stubborn. I understand the Klingons’ position, but the Cardassians are genuinely baffled by it. I’m trying to be fair to them—after all, they think they have every right to Raknal V.”

  “Perhaps. But you must be wary of being too accommodating to the Cardassians.”

  Dax smiled. “Actually, I’m more worried about the opposite. My affinity for the Klingons is hardly a secret.”

  “If there are any who are unaware of it, it is only because you have not had the opportunity to provide that information to them,” Sarek said dryly. “That sort of emotional attachment can be a detriment.”

  “It’s served me well with the Klingons,” Dax said almost defensively. Damn you, Sarek, how is it you manage to make me feel like a twenty-year-old naïf even now? “In fact, I’d venture to say that our continued good relations with the Empire are due in no small part to that public affinity.”

  “Which is why I have not discouraged the affinity in the past. However, in this instance, it may do you more harm than good.”

  Smiling ruefully, Dax said, “Actually, I think my problem is the other way around—I’m overcompensating by being too nice to the Cardassians.”

  “That would be a mistake. I have seen firsthand what Cardassians are capable of if they are given too much—niceness.”

  Dax grinned. “I’ll just have to be more like you, then.”

  “I have always felt that you could afford to incorporate more discipline into your personality. It is good to see that you are at last taking my advice.”

  The grin widening, Dax said, “First time for everything.” He let out a breath. Just talking to the ambassador made him feel better. “Thank you, Sarek—I needed this.”

  “I have done nothing.”

  Dax shook his head. Only a Vulcan could go from arrogant to modest within two sentences—and make them both sound like simple statements of fact. “Well, thanks for nothing, then. Give my regards to Perrin.”

  “I will do so.”

  “When this mess is over, I’ll try to drop by and finally meet her. Looks like she’s done wonders with the garden.”

  Sarek came infinitesmally close to a smile. “My wife has a great affinity for bringing out the best in living things.”

  “That’s good to hear, old friend. Take care.”

  As Sarek’s face faded from the screen, Dax thought back to the glow that surrounded Ian Troi at the reception last night. At the mention of Perrin and the garden, the same glow seemed to suffuse Sarek. Something about finding your life-mate that improves the disposition, obviously, Dax thought. Maybe I should try it again.

  Of course, Curzon had never settled down with any single person, but many of the previous hosts of the Dax symbiont had done so, and found it most satisfying. But then there was Torias…

  Dax banished the thought from his head. More than one fellow joined Trill had accused him of letting the memories of his last host have undue influence on the current one. Torias Dax had been married to Nilani Kahn for less than a year when a shuttle accident claimed the former’s life. Curzon still felt the pain of Torias’s death keenly, and some had said that Dax’s present inability to commit to any kind of long-term relationship was a psychological attempt to never again repeat what happened to Torias. Dax himself had always thought such accusations to be ridiculous. Curzon’s roving eye predated his joining—indeed, was the cause of more than one near-scandal during his time as an initiate. Bonding with the Dax symbiont simply did nothing to discourage that tendency.

  Still, sometimes he thought he would like to have had that glow.

  Shaking his head, he left the briefing room, determined to be more even-handed in his mediating. I will work out an agreement that won’t thrust this sector into a bloody war that neither side can win.

  “So you’re telling me that the probe may have given you readings that might be indicative of something in the nebula and you want to test these possibilities by going in with a shuttle?”

  Ian Troi tried to keep the look of disappointment off his face at Captain Haden’s words. Somehow, it sounded more promising the way he’d phrased it to Commander Garrett. He sat next to her in one of the two guest chairs in the tiny office off the bridge that was referred to as the “ready room,” an appellation that Troi had never understood. Well, that wasn’t fair—he’d never given it a second thought until he mentioned it to Lwaxana, who asked, “Ready for what?” Troi’s lack of an answer for that question prompted his then-fiancée to declare the term ridiculous, and she promised to use all her influence as a Daughter of the Fifth House to get it changed.

  Of course, based on the evidence to date, all that being a Daughter of the Fifth House meant, really, was that they had been obligated to invite half of Betazed to their wedding…

  Forcing his thoughts back to the present, he glanced up at Vaughn, who was standing against one of the walls, and who had asked to tag along to this meeting. “For what it’s worth, Captain, I think it warrants further investigation. Yes, it may be nothing, but I’d rather play it safe.”

  Haden didn’t sound convinced. “There’s no such thing as playing it safe when we’ve got trigger-happy Cardassians and Klingons hanging off our bow. Li gave me the report from security on the meetings so far—most of it has involved shouting. Gul Monor and Captain Qaolin already objected to the probe, and now, with all this, you think I should risk pissing them off again for what may be a wild goose chase?”

  Troi found his mouth moving before his brain had a chance to stop it. “Sir, have you ever encountered a wild goose?”

  “I beg your pardon, Lieutenant?” Haden said, his wide brown eyes now boring a hole in Troi’s forehead.

  Troi glanced quickly at Vaughn, whose expression was unreadable, and Garrett, who looked vaguely amused, then back at Haden. “A wild goose, sir,” Troi repeated. “Have you ever encountered one?”

  “I have seen many things in all my years in Starfleet, Mr. Troi, but I must admit to never having come across a goose of any kind, wild or otherwise, that wasn’t part of a meal. I take it you have?”

  “Yes, sir, once, in England as a boy. Geese can get very ill-tempered—even ones raised in captivity. This one wasn’t, and it was brutal. Wild geese are surly, quick to anger, quicker to violence, and can do an amazing amount of damage with their beaks. The one I, uh, dealt with took a good-sized chunk out of my thigh.”

  “Lieutenant, I hope to hell you’re going somewhere with this.”

  Me, too. “Yes, sir, I am.” He stole a glance at Garrett, who looked half a step away from an out-and-out giggle, which wasn’t making Troi feel any better. “My point is, it’s better that we chase a wild goose than find ourselves attacked by one. It may go after more than our thigh, sir.”

  Haden continued to stare. Garrett continued to struggle mightily to keep a straight face. Vaughn had no trouble keeping his. Troi fidgeted.

  Vaughn then spoke up. “Sir, I’ve had some suspicions from the beginning of this mission, and Lieutenant Troi’s readings are in line with those suspicions.”

  “All right, fine,” Haden said, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll figure out what to tell Qaolin and Monor. I’ll wait until I have an hour blocked out, so I can let Monor carry on.” Looking at Garrett, he said, “Take the Hoplite, but maintain radio discretion.”

  “Sir?” Troi said.

  “Radio silence would draw attention, Lieutenant,” Garrett said as she got up. “Radio discretion means we’re just on a scientific survey of the nebula, and all our comm traffic should reflect that.”

  “You’re going too, Mr. Vaughn,” Haden added. “I know better than to think that you’re going to actually tell me your suspicions until they become something stronger, but I want you on-site in case they’re confirmed.”

  “Understood, Captain,” Vaughn sai
d with a nod.

  As Troi got up, Haden said, “And Mr. Troi?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Good catch. Even if it turns out to be nothing—you showed initiative. I appreciate that.”

  Troi smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Besides,” and here Haden actually smiled, a facial expression Troi had heretofore never seen on his captain’s face, “I liked the goose story.”

  Chapter 10

  Shuttlecraft Hoplite

  “Approaching Betreka Nebula,” Ian Troi said as he piloted the shuttlecraft Hoplite toward the phenomenon in question. With each kilometer closer they came to the nebula’s perimeter, the image on the viewscreen started to get fuzzier, as the image translator found itself incapable of processing the data, scrambled as it was by the nebula’s particulate matter: gases, dust, metals, silicates, carbon monoxide and carbon dioxide “ice,” and so much more. As they grew nearer, Troi muttered, “‘We are star stuff.’”

  “I beg your pardon?” Garrett asked from the copilot’s seat.

  “Uh, sorry, sir. Just quoting a human scientist from a few hundred years back.”

  “‘We are star stuff,’” Garrett repeated. “I’m familiar with Carl Sagan’s work.” She grinned. “Hard to do this for a living and not be, what with him being required reading at the Academy and all.”

  “Yes, sir,” Troi said ruefully. “Sorry. Lwaxana doesn’t know much about Earth history and culture, so I keep having to explain my likes and hobbies and things.” He grinned, remembering his numerous failed attempts to convey his love for Western stories from Earth’s nineteenth century. “I guess I’ve grown accustomed to getting all pedantic.”

  “Like your colloquy on geese?”

  Troi closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “I suppose so, yes.”

  From one of the passenger seats behind Troi, Vaughn said, “It’s an odd thing, Ian. I recall, when I read over your service record, there was a mention of a leg injury in your medical file. But, if I’m remembering the record properly, you listed it as a boating accident when you provided your medical history upon enrolling at the Academy.”

  “Yes,” Garrett said, her grin growing ever wider. “Come to think of it, I recall that as well, Lieutenant. You have a fine memory. I have to question yours, though, Mr. Troi.”

  Troi sighed. “I was young, and I didn’t think it was very—I didn’t—oh, hell.” He sighed again. “I didn’t want to put ‘menaced by a goose’ in my medical history.”

  Vaughn smirked. “I can’t believe that—Starfleet cadets are, after all, the epitome of tact and good manners. For the upper classes to ridicule a plebe just because he has an amusing anecdote from his past—why, that would be unheard of.”

  Laughing, Troi said, “Of course, what was I thinking?”

  “Sarcasm aside,” Garrett said, “you probably made the right choice. I know I would’ve done the same in your place. Same with the lieutenant here, I’ll wager.”

  “I’d rather not say,” Vaughn said with mock gravity.

  An alarm went off on the console. “We’ve lost long-range sensors and about ninety percent of visual. Short-range sensors are—dodgy,” Troi said, not finding a better word for it.

  “Shields inoperative,” Garrett added, looking at her own console.

  Then the shuttle shook rather violently. Troi instinctively glanced down to make sure he was securely strapped into his seat, a precaution he had suggested when they first disembarked from the Carthage, and which Garrett had wholeheartedly endorsed.

  “That shouldn’t have happened so fast.” Troi started scanning the region. “Damn—the concentration of charged particles is through the roof.”

  “More than expected?”

  “Much more.” Troi examined the scan results. “Based on all the previous scans of the nebula, the concentration should be about a quarter of—”

  He was cut off by the Hoplite shaking once again.

  “The hull can’t take too much of this,” Garrett said. “We may have to abort.”

  “No,” Vaughn said sharply. “We need to investigate this further.”

  Garrett turned to look sharply at the lieutenant. “If we do abort this mission, it will be on my order, Lieutenant, is that clear?”

  With a conciliatory nod, Vaughn said, “Of course, Commander, but there’s only one reason why there’d be a concentration of charged particles of this magnitude. If there—”

  “—are ships in the nebula, yes, I’m aware of that, Mr. Vaughn,” Garrett finished.

  “Well, actually,” Troi said, “it only really indicates the presence of large electrically conductive objects—a ship, or several ships, is simply the most likely such object to move into the nebula.”

  “You’re being pedantic again, Mr. Troi.” Garrett looked back at Vaughn. “Besides, there was a fleet of nine ships in this very nebula three weeks ago. It’s possible that that’s what stirred up this hornet’s nest of electrons.”

  The Hoplite shook again. “Structural integrity field holding at ninety percent,” Troi said, then turned to his first officer. “The concentration wouldn’t still be this high after three weeks, Commander. I think we need to investigate further.”

  Garrett thought for several seconds. Please trust my judgment, Troi found himself thinking, wishing he were telepathic like Lwaxana so he could convey with his mind what words were obviously failing to do: that he knew there were ships in the nebula, knew it from the moment he saw the odd reading. From the sounds of it, Vaughn felt the same—or, perhaps more accurately, Vaughn was worried that it was true. Either way, they needed to verify it.

  Finally, Garrett came to a decision, just as more particles slammed into the shuttle. “All right. But I’m going to keep a close eye on the rate at which the SIF is deteriorating, how far we go into the nebula, what our maximum safe speed is, and how they all compare to each other. The minute those numbers add up to something approaching our inability to make it out in one piece, I’m turning this thing around and heading home no matter what we’ve found, understood?”

  “Aye, sir,” Troi said.

  “Yes, Commander,” Vaughn added.

  Garrett’s proviso made perfect sense to Troi. After all, it didn’t do any good to find something and not be able to report it. “Proceeding forward.”

  The ship shook again, and this time a console exploded.

  “Damn,” Troi said. “Damage control response systems are offline.” That meant that, if there was a hull breach, force fields would not engage to seal the breach until it could be physically repaired. “And we’ve got a plasma leak back there.”

  “I’ve got it,” Vaughn said, unstrapping himself from his seat and moving for the emergency toolkit.

  “Be careful back there, Lieutenant,” Garrett said, still looking down at her console. “I don’t want—braking thrusters, now! All stop!”

  Troi’s hands moved to stop the Hoplite’s forward motion before his brain registered Garrett’s sudden order. Even as he fired the braking thrusters, he discovered the reason for the order: the proximity detector had picked up a huge mass only a few kilometers away. Had Troi not applied the thrusters when he did, there was a very good chance that the Hoplite would by now be flattened across the surface of that mass.

  “Can you get a decent scan of that, Mr. Troi?”

  “Working on it, sir,” Troi said as he tried to coax some kind of reading out of the sensors and the proximity detector. He managed to get an image of at least part of the shape—the mass extended beyond the range of either scanning device—and ran it through the computer for analysis. When it gave him an answer, he swallowed. I was sure I was right, but I don’t think I really wanted to be, he thought. “According to what we can detect, there’s a sixty-five percent chance that we almost crashed into a Cardassian Akril-class vessel.”

  From the aft, even as he operated the tools necessary to seal the plasma leak, Vaughn said, “Dammit. Commander, this is exactly what I thought we’d
find in here, and fulfills the very fears that led Starfleet to send me along. The Cardassians have no more interest in negotiating in good faith here than they did on Vulcan last year—they’re just trying to find ways to improve their own position, in this case probably by gathering additional intelligence on us and the Klingons before they strike.”

  “Unless, of course, there’s only the one ship,” Garrett said.

  Vaughn continued to focus on the leak. “Unlikely. Cardassians are like wolves, Commander—they often travel in packs.”

  “Either way, I don’t want to be anywhere near them.” Garrett gazed down at her console. “SIF is down to forty percent. Bring us about, Mr. Troi, and set course back for the Carthage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Even as Troi entered the course change into the Hoplite’s navigation computer, the shuttle shook again. “You okay back there, Elias?” he asked as he turned the Hoplite around and engaged the new course.

  “Just fine, thanks, Ian,” came Vaughn’s steady voice from the aft compartment. “Leak is sealed and I’ve bypassed the fried circuitry on the damage control systems. You should be able to reactivate them.”

  Troi checked his status board, and saw that the power flow was uninterrupted. He moved to activate the system—

  —just as the hull-breach alarm rang out. The noise of the alarm was loud enough that Troi could feel it in his rib cage, but that wasn’t the worst sensation. His ears popped from the sudden change in pressure even as his chair lurched backward, the explosive decompression trying to pull Troi and his chair toward the hole that had opened in the aft section of the Hoplite.