Star Trek The Next Generation: Planet X

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Then, as if the attack had annoyed them, the enemy emerged from cover all together and hammered the Starfleet officers’ positions. The resulting volley was nothing short of devastating. What’s more, it caught two of the android’s comrades by surprise.

  Jerking and spinning under the influence of the Draa’kons’ disruptor bolts, Saffron and Bertaina fell and lay still. Data didn’t have to feel their pulses to know they were dead. And now that he had emotions of his own, he was able to regret their passing as deeply as anyone.

  “Himmel,” came a cry from the pile of debris on his right.

  Turning, he saw that it had come from Nightcrawler. “What is it?” the android asked the mutant.

  “We’re not getting anywhere this way,” said Nightcrawler. “And if we run out of ammunition before they do …”

  He didn’t have to finish his sentence. Data knew well enough what would transpire at that point. He and his comrades would be forced to withdraw, leaving the transformed at the mercy of the Draa’kon.

  To the android, that wasn’t a viable option.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked the mutant.

  Nightcrawler looked at him, his golden eyes locked on Data’s. “Not as bad as I thought I would after that jump to the Draa’kon ship.” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

  The android smiled. “I believe you know why. It might save some lives if we can get into that building and spirit the transformed out of it.”

  The mutant took a breath and let it out. “You ask a lot of me, my friend. It’s a good thing I like you.”

  “Then you will do it?” Data pressed.

  “Have I a choice?” Nightcrawler asked in return.

  The android regarded him for a moment. “That is a rhetorical question,” he concluded.

  Covering the distance in a single bound, the mutant was beside him.

  Unfortunately, the debris didn’t offer sufficient cover for both of them. “Stay down,” Data advised him, putting a firm hand on the mutant’s shoulder.

  “Don’t distract me,” came the reply. “When I’m tired, I need to concentrate even harder.”

  The android studied Nightcrawler’s face, watching as his companion composed himself. After all, Data’s positronic brain allowed him to catch nuances the human mind could not.

  Still, he failed to pin down the precise moment at which the mutant effected the teleport. He simply came to the abrupt realization that he was no longer outside the beleaguered building, looking in. He was inside it. So was Nightcrawler. And they were standing in the midst of the transformed who had hidden themselves there.

  “Someone’s here!” cried one of the transformed.

  “Please do not be alarmed,” Data said calmly. “I assure you, we are not here to hurt you. In fact—”

  “Liar!” shouted another of the youths.

  “No!” the mutant yelled back. “We’re not with the Draa’kon. We’re—”

  Before he could finish his disclaimer, the air around his head turned into a solid crystal. Unable to breathe, the already weakened Nightcrawler fell to the ground, his eyes staring and filled with horror.

  The android knelt and took the crystal in his hands, hoping he could break it without harming his friend. But before he could make the attempt, someone raised her fist and pierced him with a bolt of charged plasma.

  Data writhed uncontrollably, flopping around as if he had lost control of his limbs. And of course, he had.

  His artificial body had always enabled him to tolerate a considerable degree of physical punishment. But when it came to a high-powered plasma charge, he was as vulnerable as anyone else.

  “You do not … understand,” the android told the transformed, trying to make their faces stop swimming in front of him. “We are not … not your enemies. We came here to … to offer …”

  Before he could finish, he shut down.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  DR. CRUSHER ENTERED the holodeck and saw what she had created. It was a large room with hardwood walls and furnishings, where tall windows framed in heavy, red velvet drapes let in shafts of moonlight.

  The place spoke eloquently of comfort and old-fashioned charm, not unlike her grandmother’s house in the Caldos Colony. Comfort and charm and a quiet, stolid strength.

  Here, a potted plant lent grace to an otherwise bare corner. There, an Oriental vase contributed a delicate beauty. And still elsewhere, a brick fireplace held the glow of burning embers.

  Caught in that glow was a heavy, mahogany desk, the darkened computer monitor that sat on it, and what looked at first glance like a golden egg. A second look told the doctor that it was a chair of some kind, positioned with its back to her.

  Then her gaze was drawn to the window beyond it, and she saw the reflection there. His reflection.

  “Professor?” she ventured.

  There was no answer—at least, not at first. But a moment later, the chair pulled back from the desk into the center of the room, where there was more room for it to maneuver. Then it turned around a hundred and eighty degrees, gradually revealing the man inside it.

  The mutants were right, she thought. There was something of a resemblance after all. Crusher found herself smiling.

  Xavier didn’t smile back. In fact, he didn’t seem to exhibit any expression at all. He merely made a pyramid of his fingers, as if that were a statement in itself.

  “I find myself at a disadvantage,” he told her.

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor said, remembering her manners. She came forward and offered the man her hand. “My name is Beverly Crusher. I’m the chief medical officer here.”

  The professor grasped her hand politely. “Here?” he echoed skeptically. “You mean in Salem Center? Pardon me for saying so, but I don’t know any medical doctors who dress as you do.”

  She nodded. “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but we’re not in Salem Center. We’re on a starship. And …” She took a breath and let it out. “… you’re not Charles Xavier.”

  He almost smiled, his eyes sparkling with firelight. “I’m not?”

  “Not really,” the doctor told him. “You’re a holographic representation of Charles Xavier. I created you with data uploaded from your computer files when this ship was in your reality.”

  The professor regarded her intently. After a moment, he began to look concerned. “I can’t enter your mind to verify your statements. I wonder why that would be.”

  “Because,” she said, “there’s no way to simulate your mental powers here in the holodeck.”

  Xavier’s brow creased. “Holodeck? I thought you said we were on a ship of some kind.”

  “We are,” Crusher replied patiently.

  After all, she needed the man’s help. They all did.

  “The holodeck is a facility on our ship,” the doctor explained. “In fact, there are several such facilities. They employ electromagnetic fields and omnidirectional image projectors to simulate objects, environments, … and even living beings.”

  The professor’s eyes narrowed beneath his upswept eyebrows. “How interesting,” he said.

  “You believe me, then?”

  “For the moment,” he responded, “I’ll accept your explanation as the truth—if only as an excercise in logic. Now, if I may ask … for what purpose did you create this simulation?”

  Crusher found herself grateful for the man’s intellect. Not every twentieth-century Earthman would have been able to accept what she had told him, even on a provisional basis.

  “It seems,” she said, “we have a problem on our hands.”

  She told him about the situation on Xhaldia. Then she told him about the X-Men’s involvement in it.

  “I understand you’re a geneticist,” the doctor went on. “One of the foremost geneticists on Earth, in fact.”

  “That’s correct,” Xavier said.

  He didn’t take any obvious pride in the description. He might as well have been discussing someone els
e’s achievements as his own.

  “And you’ve had extensive experience with mutations,” she pointed out. “A great deal more than I have, certainly.”

  The professor nodded. “I see what you’re getting at. You’d like me to assist you in understanding the Xhaldians’ transformations … perhaps even contribute to an attempt to reverse them.”

  “Exactly right,” Crusher confirmed. “I’ve asked our away teams to obtain information on the genetic makeup of the transformed. With any luck, they’ll be bringing it back to me in the next several hours.”

  Xavier placed his forefinger against his temple. “And you expect a mere simulacrum—a collection of projected images and electromagnetic fields—to be helpful in this regard?”

  “That depends,” she said.

  He tilted his head slightly. “On what?”

  “On whether you’re as good as they say you are.”

  For a second or two, the professor seemed to ponder her remark, examining it from one angle and then another. Finally, he spoke.

  “I’m ready when you are,” he told her.

  * * *

  As Data regained his senses and opened his eyes, he had one thought: Nightcrawler.

  The last time he had seen the mutant, his fuzzy, blue head had been encased in a solid piece of crystal, which was preventing him from drawing a life-sustaining breath. If Nightcrawler had remained in such a condition for more than a few minutes, he had surely suffered brain death.

  Leaping to his feet, the android scanned the room in which he found himself. It was tiny—more like a large closet, actually, a wan sliver of light coming through under its door. And he was alone, though his supersensitive hearing could pick up the sounds of not-so-distant battle.

  Obviously, he was still in the building where he had lost consciousness. And if the fight outside was still going on, hardly any time could have elapsed. Unfortunately, his internal chronometer couldn’t shed any light on that question; the electrical charge he had sustained had caused it to stop functioning temporarily.

  In fact, all of him had stopped functioning. But as far as Data could tell, he was back in working order again.

  Finding the door, he didn’t bother to determine if it was locked. He simply straight-armed it and walked outside, ready for anything.

  A couple of transformed whirled at the sight of him. One was the young woman who had shocked him into insensibility; however, the android didn’t give her the chance this time. He crossed the room with inhuman quickness and administered a nerve pinch he had learned years earlier.

  The Xhaldian collapsed in his arms, providing a fortuitous shield against the powers of her companion. It was just as well, considering Data didn’t know what the other transformed was capable of.

  Whatever his abilities, he must not have considered them equal to the task. Instead of going after the android, he turned and ran into the next room, shouting a warning.

  “The other one’s awake!” he roared.

  Relying on the element of surprise, Data burst into the room—the same one he and Nightcrawler had teleported into earlier. The transformed whirled, looking cornered and determined to defend themselves.

  The mutant was there as well, lying against a wall in a pool of shadows. The crystal casing was gone from his head, but his eyes were closed and he wasn’t moving.

  The android moved to his comrade’s side and checked his pulse. It was weak but detectable, and he was breathing on his own—a good sign. Still, he guessed Nightcrawler had been subjected to more than a lack of oxygen.

  As Data got to his feet, one of the transformed pointed at him. “Stay where you are!” he warned him, “or we’ll do to you what we did to your friend!”

  The android shook his head sadly. “I tried to tell you before … we are not your enemies. In fact, we may be your only prospect of salvation.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” one of the transformed told the others.

  Data turned to him. Unlike some of the youths, this one looked like any normal Xhaldian.

  “Once our guards are down,” the transformed went on, “he’ll turn us over to the aliens! Do we want that?”

  His companions answered him with a resounding: “No!”

  The android held his hands out and moved out of the shadows. “Why do you mistrust me so? Can you not see that I am like you?”

  The transformed looked at him askance. “You’re nothing like us,” one of them railed.

  “Nor am I like anyone else,” Data replied evenly. “In fact, I am unlike any other creature in the entire galaxy.”

  He pushed up his uniform sleeve and opened the access compartment in his forearm. The display of circuitry inside him brought a gasp of surprise from the transformed.

  “You see?” the android asked them. “I am like you. I am different. And because of that, I have been treated unfairly on occasion. I have even been ignored, which is sometimes worse than being treated unfairly. But despite everything, I still trust.”

  Having demonstrated his artificial nature, he closed the compartment in his arm and pulled his sleeve down. The transformed looked at him, still wary but apparently willing to hear him out.

  Data looked down at Nightcrawler. “He, too, is different. On his world, he is shunned and even feared merely because he does not look and act the way normal people do.”

  “Would you do to Nightcrawler what others have done to him? What others have done to you?” the android asked. “Would you shun him and fear him without cause, simply because he is unfamiliar to you? Because he is … different?”

  The Xhaldians looked at one another. There was no pride in their expressions, no righteous anger. There was only regret.

  “If you were going to trust someone,” Data continued, “would you not trust someone who had experienced what you are experiencing now? Someone like myself, perhaps … or Nightcrawler here?”

  He had barely finished speaking when one of the transformed—a tall, almost gangly young man—got up and went over to the mutant. Bending down, he touched Nightcrawler on the shoulder. Then he looked up at the android.

  “It was a toxin,” he said, by way of an explanation. “I make them. It kept him quiet.”

  “I see,” Data responded. “And now you have neutralized it?”

  The youth nodded. “He’ll be all right in a moment or two.”

  His prediction was an accurate one. Within seconds, the mutant began to stir, then blink and sit up. He looked around wonderingly—first at Data and then at the transformed.

  “Unh … ?” he began. Then he must have remembered, because he felt his face. “That crystal thing …”

  “Is gone,” the android assured him. “So are the toxins that kept you unconscious.”

  Nightcrawler digested the information, then glanced at the transformed. “You’ve convinced them we’re not the enemy, obviously.”

  Data considered the Xhaldians. “I believe I have,” he agreed.

  “Tell us what you want us to do,” said the youth who had been guarding the android in the other room.

  “Just revive your friend—the one who was able to disable me with her electrical powers,” Data advised him. “After that, Nightcrawler and I will do all the work. If all goes as we hope it will, you’ll be somewhere safe in a matter of a few minutes.”

  “I’ll go get her,” the transformed responded.

  As the youth left the room, the mutant placed his hand on the android’s shoulder. “Good going, my friend. But what did you tell them?”

  Data shrugged. “The truth.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “IT IS NOT going well,” Isadjo muttered.

  Ettojh, his second-in-command, slid his eyes toward him. “Did you say something, High Implementor?”

  Isadjo considered his scanplate. He could see the Enterprise hanging in space against a backdrop of stars, no less a spikefly in his fleshfolds than when it arrived.

  And yet, this spikefly—this mere annoyance, as it
had seemed at first—had wrought havoc with his mission. And if it continued to do so, his faction’s long-cherished hope of preeminence would die stillborn—a galling prospect, but one the Implementor couldn’t ignore.

  “It is not going well,” Isadjo repeated, this time with more venom in his voice. “We have yet to complete our repairs, Ettojh. And the harvesting parties should have been on their way back by now.”

  “No doubt,” said his second-in-command, “the teams from the Enterprise are impeding their efforts.”

  “Or stopping them altogether,” Isadjo noted. “One thing is certain—we cannot give them much more time. Not when Captain Picard has no doubt sent for reinforcements, which could arrive at any moment—and discover what we created on Xhaldia.”

  His second’s gill-flaps fluttered uncomfortably. “The harvest has been so long anticipated, Implementor …”

  Isadjo whirled on him, baring his several rows of teeth. “You think I don’t know that, Ettojh? You think I don’t feel the shame of—”

  He stopped short of admitting his failure out loud. But clearly, that was what it was turning out to be—a failure. And yet, were there not degrees of failure? Degrees of shame?

  If Picard’s people had an opportunity to study the Xhaldians who had been transformed, they might be able to create a harvest of their own—which would make them a much more formidable enemy in the future. The Implementor couldn’t allow that to happen; one never knew where the homeworld would turn for its next conquest.

  “Our path is clear,” he told Ettojh. “If our soldiers cannot bring in the harvest, we will have to make certain no one else receives it either.”

  His second didn’t answer. He just made a sound of obedience in his cranial cavities and awaited Isadjo’s orders.

  Turning to his scanplate again, the Implementor wished he could reach out and crush the Enterprise in his big, leathery fist. But as long as the Connharakt’s propulsion systems were in disrepair, he couldn’t mount any kind of offensive whatsoever.

  Isadjo’s mouth twisted. “This is what we will do …” he began.