by Greg Cox
That might be a bit redundant in this case, he thought, considering the gaseous nature of their foes. He appreciated the sentiment, though; he was getting pretty tired of being knocked around himself. But what could you do to an enemy who had already been reduced to plasma? That was the real problem, when you got down to it. Explosions and projectiles weren’t much good against an undifferentiated pile of gases. The Calamarain had already blown themselves to atoms, and it hadn’t hurt them one bit.
A partial retreat was also an option, he recalled. True, they couldn’t outrun the Calamarain on impulse alone—that much he knew already—but maybe they could find a nebula or an asteroid belt that might provide them with some shelter from the storm, interfere with the Calamarain’s onslaught. “Mr. Clarze,” he barked, raising his voice to be heard above the thunder vibrating through the walls of the starship. “Is there anything nearby that we could hide behind or within?” Such a sanctuary, he knew, would have to be within impulse range as long as their warp engines were down.
The Deltan helmsman quickly consulted the readouts on his monitor. “Nothing, sir,” he reported glumly, “except the barrier, of course.”
The barrier, Riker thought, sitting bolt upright in the chair. Now, there’s an idea!
The gravity was out, his little sister was crying, and Milo Faal didn’t know what to do. Ordinarily weightlessness might have been kind of fun, but not at the moment. All the loud noises and shaking had upset Kinya, and none of his usual tricks for calming her were working at all. His eyes searched the family’s quarters aboard the Enterprise in search of something he might use to reassure the toddler or distract her, but nothing presented itself; Kinya had already rejected every toy he had replicated, even the Wind Dancer hand puppet with the wiggly ears. The discarded playthings floated like miniature dirigibles throughout the living room, propelled by the force with which Kinya hurled each of them away. Not even this miraculous sight was enough to end her tantrum. “C’mon, Kinya,” the eleven-year-old boy urged the little Betazoid girl hovering in front of him, a couple of centimeters above the floor. Milo himself sat cross-legged atop a durable Starfleet-issue couch, being careful not to make any sudden movements while the gravity was gone; as long as he remained at rest he hoped to stay at rest. “Don’t you want to sing a song?” He launched into the first few verses of “The Laughing Vulcan and His Dog”—usually the toddler’s favorite—but she refused to take the bait, instead caterwauling at the top of her lungs. Even worse than the ear-piercing vocalizations, though, were the waves of emotional distress pouring out of her, flooding Milo’s empathic senses with his sister’s fear and unhappiness.
An experienced Betazoid babysitter, Milo was adept at tuning out the uncontrolled emanations of small children, but this was almost more than he could take. “Please, Kinya,” he entreated the toddler, “show me what a big girl you can be.”
Such appeals were usually effective, but not this time. She kicked her tiny feet against the carpet, lifting her several centimeters above the floor. Milo leaned forward carefully and tapped her on the head to halt the momentum carrying her upward. Kinya howled so loudly that Milo was surprised the bridge wasn’t calling to complain about the noise. Not that Kinya was just misbehaving; Milo could feel how frightened his sister was, and he didn’t blame her one bit. To be honest, Milo was getting pretty apprehensive himself. This trip aboard the Enterprise was turning out to be a lot more intimidating than he had expected.
Since their father was missing, like always, and no one else would tell them what was going on, Milo had eavesdropped telepathically on the crew and found out that the Enterprise was engaged in battle with a dangerous alien life-form. And I thought this trip would be dull, Milo recalled, shaking his head. He could use a dose of healthy boredom right now.
A thick plane of transparent aluminum, mounted in the outer wall of the living room, had previously offered an eye-catching view of the stars zipping by. Now the rectangular window revealed only the ominous sight of swollen thunderclouds churning violently outside the ship. He wasn’t sure, but, judging from what he had picked up from the occasional stray thoughts, it sounded like the clouds actually were the aliens, no matter how creepy that was to think about. The billowing vapors reminded Milo of an electrical tornado that had once frightened Milo when he was very young, during a temporary breakdown of Betazed’s environmental controls. His baby sister was too small to remember that incident, but the thunder was loud and scary enough to make her cry even louder each time the clouds crashed together.
Please be quiet, he thought at the toddler. His throat was sore from emotion, so he spoke to her mind-to-mind. Everything will be okay, he promised, hoping he was thinking the truth. There, there. Ssssh!
Kinya listened a little. Her insistent bawling faded to sniffles, and Milo wiped his sister’s nose with a freshly replicated handkerchief. The little girl was still scared; Milo could sense her acute anxiety, like a nagging toothache that wouldn’t go away, but Kinya became semi-convinced that her big brother could protect her. Milo was both touched and terrified by the child’s faith in him. It was a big responsibility, maybe bigger than he could handle.
If only Mom were here, he thought for maybe the millionth time, taking care to block his pitiful plea from the other child. But his mother was dead and nothing would ever change that, no matter how hard he wished otherwise. And his father might as well be dead, at least as far as his children were concerned.
Despite his best efforts, Kinya must have sensed his frustration. Tears streamed from a pair of large brown eyes, gliding away into the air faster than Milo could wipe them, while her face turned as red as Klingon disruptors. His sister hovered about the carpet, surrounded by all the drifting toys and treats. Kinya grabbed a model Enterprise by its starboard warp nacelle and began hammering the air with it, frustrated that she could no longer reach the floor with it. Tossing the toy ship aside, she snatched the Wind Dancer puppet as it came within her grasp and twisted its ears mercilessly. Kinya managed to abuse the toys without missing a note in her tearful ululations. Milo wanted to borrow two cushions from the couch to cover his own ears, but even that wouldn’t have been enough to block out her outpouring of emotion. It’s not fair, he thought angrily. I shouldn’t have to deal with all this on my own. I’m only eleven!
Then, to his surprise and relief, he sensed his father approaching, feeling his presence in his mind only seconds before he heard his voice in the corridor outside. His father was very irate, Milo could tell, and seemed to be arguing with someone, speaking loudly enough to be heard through the closed steel door of the guest suite. Now what? he wondered.
“This is intolerable!” Lem Faal insisted as the door slid open. He was a slender, middle-aged man with receding brown hair, wearing a pale blue lab coat over a tan suit. “Starfleet Science will hear about this, I promise you that. I have colleagues on the Executive Council, including the head of the Daystrom Institute. You tell your Commander Riker that. He’ll be lucky to command a garbage scow after I’m through with him!”
Milo was amazed. Ever since Mom died, his father had been distant, distracted, and, okay, irritable sometimes, but Milo had never heard him go all Klingon at another adult like this. What could have happened to upset him like this? Looking beyond his father, he spotted a security officer standing outside the doorway, holding on to his father’s arm. Both men wore standard-issue gravity boots, and Milo wondered if the gravity had gone out all over the Enterprise. “I’m sorry, Professor,” the Earthman said, “but, for your own safety, the commander thinks it best that you remain in your quarters for the time being.” Milo sensed a degree of impatience within the officer, as if he had already explained his position several times before.
“But my work,” Faal protested as the officer firmly but gently guided him into the living quarters. Milo hopped off the couch and launched himself toward his father for a closer look at what was going on. “You have to let me go to Engineering. It’s vital that I compl
ete the preparations for my experiment. All my research depends on it. My life’s work!”
Because of his illness, Faal looked much frailer than his years would suggest. His whole body trembled as he railed against the unfortunate guard. Nearing the doorway, Milo slowed his flight by bouncing back and forth between facing walls. He winced every time he heard his father wheeze; each breath squeaked out of his disease-ravaged lungs.
“Maybe later,” the officer hedged, although Milo could tell, as his father surely could, that it wasn’t going to happen. The guard let go of Faal’s arm and stepped back into the corridor. “There are extra boots in the emergency cupboards,” he said, nodding in Milo’s direction. “I’ll be out here if you need anything,” he said. “Computer, seal doorway. Security protocol gamma-one.”
“So I’m under house arrest, is that it?” Faal challenged him. He grabbed the edge of the door and tried to stop it from sliding shut. “You dim-witted Pakled clone, don’t you understand what is at stake? I’m on the verge of the greatest breakthrough since the beginning of warp travel, an evolutionary leap that will open up whole new horizons and possibilities for humanoids. And your idiotic Commander Riker is willing to sacrifice all that just because some quasi-intelligent gas cloud is making a fuss. It’s insane, don’t you see that?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the officer said once more, maintaining a neutral expression. “I have my orders.” Faal tried to keep the door open, but his enfeebled fingers were no match against the inexorable progress of the steel door. His hands fell away as the door slid shut, shielding the unfortunate officer from further scorn.
Gasping for breath, the scientist leaned against the closed doorway, his chest heaving. His fruitless tirade had obviously cost him dearly. His face was flushed. His large brown eyes were bloodshot. He ran his hand anxiously through his hair, leaving stringy brown tufts jutting out in many different directions. Milo could feel his father’s exhaustion radiating from him. Even with no gravity to fight against, it wore Milo out just watching him. “Are you all right, Dad?” he asked, even though they both knew he wasn’t. “Dad?”
In a telepathic society, there was no way Milo’s father could conceal his illness from his children, but he had never really spoken to them about it, either. Milo had been forced to ask the school computer about “Iverson’s disease” on his own. A lot of the medical terminology had been too advanced for him, but he had understood what “incurable” meant, not to mention “terminal.”
His father reached into the pocket of his lab coat and produced a loaded hypospray. With a shaky hand, he pressed the instrument against his shoulder. Milo heard a low hiss, then watched as his father’s breathing grew more regular, if not terribly stronger. None of this came as a surprise to the boy; he had asked the computer about “polyadrenaline,” too. He knew it only offered temporary relief from his father’s symptoms.
Sometimes he wished his father had died in that accident instead of his mother, especially since Dad was dying anyway. This private thought, kept carefully locked away where no one could hear, always brought a pang of guilt, but it was too strong to be denied entirely. It’s just so unfair! Mom could have lived for years….
At the moment, though, he was simply glad to have his father back at all. “Where have you been, Dad?” he asked. He grabbed the doorframe and pulled himself downward until his feet were once more planted on the carpet. “The ship keeps getting knocked around and everything started floating and Kinya won’t stop crying and I hear the ship is being attacked by aliens and we might get blown to pieces. Do you know what the aliens want? Did anyone tell you what’s going on?”
“What’s that?” his father replied, noticing Milo for the first time. He breathed in deeply, the air whistling in and out of his congested chest, and steadied himself.
“What are you talking about?”
“The aliens!” Milo repeated. Fortunately, their father’s arrival had momentarily silenced the toddler, who teetered on tiny legs before lifting off from the floor entirely. “I know it’s not polite to listen in on the humans’ thoughts, but the alarms were going off and the floor kept rocking and I could hear explosions or whatever going off outside and you were nowhere around and I just had to know what was happening. Have you seen the battle, Dad? Is Captain Picard winning?”
“Picard is gone,” Faal said brusquely. A plush toy kitten drifted in front of his face and he irritably batted it away. “Some insignificant moron named Riker is in charge now, someone with no understanding or respect for the importance of my work.” He seemed to be talking to himself more than to Milo. “How dare he try to stop me like this! He’s nothing more than a footnote in history. A flea. A speck.”
This was not the kind of reassurance Milo hoped for and needed from his father. He’s worried more about his stupid experiment than us, he realized, same as always. He tried to remember that his father was very sick, that he wasn’t himself these days, but he couldn’t help feeling resentful again. “What happened to the captain?” he asked anxiously. “Did the aliens kill him?”
“Please,” his father said impatiently, dismissing Milo’s questions with a wave of his hand before creeping slowly toward his own bedroom. “I can’t deal with this right now,” he muttered. “I need to think. There has to be something I can do, some way I can convince them. My work is too important. Everything depends on it….”
Milo stared at this father’s back in disbelief. He didn’t even try to conceal his shock and sense of betrayal. How could Father just ignore him at a time like this? Never mind me, he thought, what about my sister? He looked over his shoulder at Kinya, who was watching her father’s departure with wide, confused eyes. “Daddy?” she asked plaintively.
Lightning flashed right outside the living room, followed by a boom that sounded like it was coming from the very walls of the guest suite. The overhead lights flickered briefly, and Milo saw the forcefield reinforcing the window sparkle on and off like a toy Borg shield whose batteries were running low. The momentary darkness panicked the toddler. Tears streaming from her eyes and trailing behind her like the tail of a comet, Kinya bounced after her father, arms outstretched and beseeching. I know how she feels, Milo thought, breathing a sigh of relief as Faal grudgingly plucked the tearful girl from the air. “About time,” Milo murmured, not caring whether his father heard him or not.
But instead of clasping Kinya to his chest, the scientist kept the whimpering child at arm’s length as he handed Kinya over to Milo, who was momentarily surprised by how weightless she felt. “By the Chalice,” his father wheezed in an exasperated tone, “can’t you handle this?” The model Enterprise cruised past his head, provoking a disgusted scowl. “And do something about these blasted toys. This is ridiculous.” He glanced over Milo at the tempest beyond the transparent window. “They’re just clouds. How can clouds ruin all my plans?” he mumbled to himself before disappearing into his private bedchamber. An interior doorway slid shut, cutting him off from his children
The total absence of gravity did nothing to diminish the anger and disillusionment that crashed down on Milo in the wake of his father’s retreat. Without warning, he found himself stuck with a semi-hysterical sibling and a murderous rage he could scarcely contain. No, he thought emphatically. You can’t do this. I won’t let you.
Summoning up as much psychic energy as he could muster, he willed his thoughts through the closed door and straight into his father’s skull. Help us, please, he demanded, determined to break through the man’s detachment. You can’t ignore us anymore.
For one brief instant, Milo sensed a tremor of remorse and regret within Lem Faal’s mind; then, so quickly that it was over even before Milo realized what had happened, an overpowering burst of psychic force shoved him roughly out of his father’s consciousness. Mental walls, more impervious than the duranium door sealing Faal’s bedroom, thudded into place between Milo and his father, shutting him out completely.
Unable to comprehend what had just occurre
d, Kinya blubbered against her brother’s chest while, biting down on his lower lip, Milo fought back tears of his own. I hate you, he thought at his father, heedless of who else might hear him. I don’t care if you’re dying, I hate you forever.
On the bridge, six levels away, Deanna Troi felt a sudden chill, and an unaccountable certainty that something very precious had just broken beyond repair.
Still looking slightly green, Lieutenant Barclay nevertheless stood by his post at the science station. His long face pale and clammy, he awkwardly clambered into the magnetic boots he found waiting there. Judging from his miserable expression, the only good thing about the total absence of gravity upon the bridge was that it couldn’t possibly make him any sicker.
Riker barely noticed Barclay’s distress, his attention consumed by the daring but risky stratagem that had just presented itself to his imagination. “Mr. Data,” he asked urgently, “if we did enter the galactic barrier, what are the odds the Calamarain would follow us?”
“Will!” Deanna whispered to him, alarmed. “Surely you’re not thinking…” Her words trailed off as she spotted the resolute look on Riker’s face and the daredevil gleam in his eyes. “Are you sure this is wise?”
Maybe not wise, but necessary, he thought. The Calamarain were literally shaking the Enterprise apart; the failure of the gravity generators was only the latest symptom of the beating they had been taking ever since the cloud-creatures first attacked. Even if Data managed to invent some ingenious new way of fighting back against the Calamarain, they would never be able to implement it without some sort of respite. At that very moment, an ear-shattering crash of thunder buffeted the ship, tossing the bridge from side to side with whiplash intensity. Duranium flooring buckled and a fountain of white-hot sparks erupted only a few centimeters from Riker’s boots. Feeling the heat upon his legs, he drew back his feet instinctively even as a security officer, Caitlin Plummer, hurried to douse the blaze with a handheld extinguisher. Startled cries and exclamations reached Riker’s ears as similar fires broke out around the bridge. With only one foot securely embedded in his gravity boots, Barclay hopped backward as his science console spewed a cascade of orange and golden sparks. His shoulder bumped into Lieutenant Leyoro, who drove him away with a fierce stare that seemed to frighten him even more than the flames. “E-excuse me,” he stammered. “I’ll just stand over here if you don’t mind….”
