Star Trek The Next Generation: Planet X

by Michael Jan Friedman

  And why not? He was bigger than she was, and more powerful. If he could get his hands around her throat, it wouldn’t matter that she was a mutant. He would throttle her in no time.

  But once again, Storm proved more than equal to the challenge. Before Rahatan could reach her, he was caught in a swirling twist of wind. It wrenched him skyward, spinning him around as he ascended, until he was a hundred meters or more above the ground.

  The earth-mover screamed for help, but he didn’t get any. His compatriots were all unconscious. So Rahatan kept spinning around, faster and faster, until at last he stopped screaming and went limp in the twister’s grasp.

  Only then did Storm relent. Gradually, with remarkable gentleness considering how recently the Xhaldian had tried to kill her, she lowered his unconscious form to street level. Finally, when he touched the ground, she put an end to the cylconic winds altogether.

  It was over. And, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the mutant had won.

  Chapter Thirty

  PICARD GRITTED HIS teeth and battled to keep his pod upright as it descended through layers of cloud, its tractor beams locked on the Draa’kons’ deadly cluster missile.

  His eyes were stinging from heat and perspiration, his uniform soaked through and through, but he wouldn’t allow himself to lose his focus. Not when tens of thousands of lives were depending on him.

  At the same time, Archangel was contending with the whipping winds and the frustrating lack of visibility to make his way to his objective. As the captain watched, the mutant was buffeted to one side or the other, but over and over again he fought his way back on course.

  Picard had seldom seen such courage or determination. It was even more remarkable when one considered that the mutant had been in sickbay less than an hour earlier.

  Teeth clenched and bared, wings beating with raw power, Archangel got close enough to the cluster to reach for one of its limbs … to close his fingers around it … and finally, folding his wings at just the right moment, to swing himself into the weapon’s innermost network.

  That done, he found the access plate the captain had told him about. His hair whipping about his head, he took out the phaser Picard had loaned him after they set out. Then he activated it and trained its crimson beam on the plate’s lock.

  Gently, thought the captain, gently. One wrong move by the mutant and they would both be vaporized. Worse, Verdeen would become a city of ghosts.

  Fragments of clouds flew up past Archangel, obscuring him for a moment. When the captain caught sight of him again, he was putting away his phaser—a good sign, Picard thought.

  Then, with the utmost care, the mutant slid open the access plate. The captain cheered inwardly. They were halfway home.

  But only halfway. The next step would be every bit as tricky as the first. Inside the compartment, Archangel would find the cluster’s photon-based power source and its trigger mechanism. His goal would be to deactivate the trigger without disturbing the photon pack.

  According to the shuttlepod’s sensor readouts, there was only one way to accomplish that—by pressing a single stud. But it was one of several such studs on the body of the trigger mechanism and pressing the wrong one would bring on disaster.

  Grimly, the mutant put his hand inside the compartment. Picard watched him work, his throat bone-dry, his eyes feeling as if they had been scraped raw. The heat in the cabin was like a furnace, blistering and unrelenting.

  But he still had a mission to perform. If Archangel were to succeed, the captain would have to persevere as well.

  Seconds passed, with no relief. On his monitor screens, Picard could see the planet’s surface looming closer and closer. What’s more, he told himself, the aliens’ explosive might have been set to detonate before it reached the ground.

  Meanwhile, in his perch on the missile, the mutant continued to probe its delicate inner workings. He worked slowly, cautiously, his face a window on his frustration.

  The captain glanced at his board again. They were less than five kilometers from Verdeen. Five kilometers and a single minute—at the outside.

  If Archangel were to disarm the missile, he would have to do it in the next few seconds. Otherwise, Picard would have to take matters in his own hands and try to wrench the weapon away from its target, as reckless a maneuver as that might be.

  Suddenly, the mutant and the alien weapon were lost to Picard’s sight, blanketed in clouds. Cursing, the captain tried to make them out again, tried to discern even their outlines through the mask of water vapors.

  But he couldn’t. And his sensors weren’t telling what he needed to know, either.

  Grinding his teeth, Picard reached for his thruster controls, intent on veering off to the side and attempting to take the cluster with him. But before he could effect the course change, he saw something loom out of the clouds.

  It was a man with wings, headed for the captain like a bird of prey. Struggling against the winds, Archangel reached for the pod’s observation port and touched it with one hand.

  With the other, he gave made a sign: a thumbs-up. Mission accomplished, it seemed to say.

  Then, his head lolling to one side, the mutant was ripped from the observation port and lost to Picard’s sight.

  Fortunately, the captain still had a working transporter. Using his sensors to determine Archangel’s coordinates, he compensated for the speed of the mutant’s descent and obtained a lock.

  Then he activated the transporter beam. A moment later, Archangel materialized in the aft part of the pod, exhausted but alive.

  That accomplished, Picard turned his attention back to the missile. After all, it remained something of a threat. Though disarmed, it would crush whatever it hit when it reached the planet’s surface.

  But now, the captain could drag it off course without fear of detonating its payload—and without having to worry about the friction of descent any longer. With that in mind, he applied his thrusters and set a course for the peaks of a nearby mountain range.

  Finally, activating the pod’s autopilot, Picard left his seat and went to see to the winged man. As he knelt down beside Archangel, he saw the mutant’s eyes latch onto him.

  “You … had your chance,” he breathed, “to get rid of me.”

  The captain smiled and grasped Archangel’s hand. “Perhaps next time,” he said reasonably.

  The mutant smiled, too.

  Strange, Picard thought. A short while earlier, he couldn’t have thought less of the headstrong Archangel. Now, he had to count the mutant among the people he admired.

  His smile broadened. Strange indeed.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  PICARD LEANED FORWARD in his chair. It had been less than a half hour since his return to the bridge, but he could already see his other shuttlecraft emerging from Xhaldia’s cloud-swaddled atmosphere.

  First came the Onizuka, Commander Riker’s vessel. Then came the Pike, commanded by Counselor Troi. And finally the Voltaire, with Worf and his people aboard.

  The away teams had done it, the captain acknowledged, with a certain amount of satisfaction. They had stopped the Draa’kon, or they would never have left the planet’s surface.

  “Open a channel to the Onizuka,” Picard commanded.

  A moment later, Riker’s visage graced the screen. He looked tired and dirty, but he was clearly in one piece.

  “Good to see you again, Number One. What is the situation in Verdeen?” the captain asked.

  The first officer sighed. “Four dead, sir—Wilkes, Calderon, Saffron, and Bertaina. But the Draa’kon have been stopped, and the transformed have been taken into custody. In most cases, they gave themselves up; in others, they’ll have to stand trial.”

  Picard was willing to wait for the details, of which there would certainly be many. “We are making progress here as well, Will. Shields have been partially restored and Commander La Forge tells me forward phasers will be online momentarily.”

  “That’s good news,” said Riker.
>
  “Indeed,” the captain replied. “But we can brief each other more fully when you return. I’ll alert Shuttle Bay One to expect you.”

  “Acknowledged, sir. I’ll pass that on to—”

  Before he could finish, the first officer’s shuttle was rocked. Sparks spewed from its control console. And before Picard could determine the cause of it, the viewscreen filled with static.

  Automatically, it returned to its previous perspective on Xhaldia and the shuttles. It was enough to tell the captain everything he needed to know.

  Before his eyes, the Connharakt had begun to stalk the shuttles like a mammoth predator, its propulsion systems at least minimally functional again, and its weapons ports ablaze with destructive energy beams.

  Somehow, the Draa’kon ship had powered up its engines without Picard’s knowing about it. And if he didn’t react quickly, his away teams would be blown out of space.

  Even as he thought that, his bridge jerked under the impact of a Draa’kon barrage.

  “Transporter Room One,” the captain said, his voice taut with urgency. “Prepare to beam our people off those shuttles.”

  The response came almost instantly—but it wasn’t the one Picard had been expecting.

  “I can’t, sir,” replied Lt. Robinson. “That last impact took the transporters offline.”

  The captain’s teeth ground together in frustration. He had to try something else.

  “Lt. Rager,” he barked, “position us between the Connharakt and the Onizuka!”

  After all, the Onizuka had already been hit. And by the look of her, she had been hit hard.

  The conn officer did as she was told. A moment later, the Enterprise darted into the fray, shielding Riker’s shuttle from further fire.

  Unfortunately, Picard could protect only one of his craft at a time. And with the state his shields were in, he couldn’t do it indefinitely.

  A disruptor bolt pounded the Enterprise, sending a tremor through the ship. The captain turned to Ensign Suttles.

  “Return fire!” he snapped hopefully.

  The ensign checked his monitors, then looked up. “We can’t, sir. The phasers are still offline.”

  “Shields down to twenty percent,” Rager reported.

  On the viewscreen, the two other shuttles were taking advantage of the distraction to escape. But before they could get very far, the Connharakt stabbed the Pike with a disruptor beam—sending her flying sideways, a trail of plasma emissions in her wake.

  “They’ve crippled her,” the captain breathed, accepting what he knew to be a deadly fact.

  The Pike was easy prey for the Draa’kon now—a sitting duck—and even if Picard wanted to leave Riker’s craft unprotected, there was no way he could reach her sister shuttle in time.

  “Captain,” said Suttles, his voice suddenly full of excitement, “we’ve got forward phasers!”

  Without hesitating, Picard pointed to the viewscreen, where the hulking Connharakt dwarfed Counselor Troi’s tiny shuttlecraft. “Target,” he cried, “and fire!”

  * * *

  The taste of blood in her mouth, Troi tried to lift herself off the deck of the Pike. Abruptly, she felt a strong pair of hands pull her up the rest of the way.

  Turning, she saw that it was Colossus who was providing the assistance. He wasn’t just lifting her, either. He was using his metallic body to shield her from a shower of hot sparks.

  The shuttle’s cabin was in disarray, her control panels sputtering, plumes of smoke wafting forward from the ruin of her propulsion system. However, everyone was still alive.

  At least, for the moment.

  “Are you all right, Counselor?” asked Lt. Glavin, one of the security officers who had accompanied her to Xhaldia’s surface.

  “She’s just fine,” Wolverine interjected. He eyed Lt. Stephenson, the shuttle’s helmsman. “Now, if it’s okay with you, soldier, I’d just as soon get outta here before those bozos lambaste us a second time.”

  “I’d be glad to,” said Stephenson, “if we still had engines, or even thrusters. But that blast threw everything offline.”

  Troi peered out the forward observation port, where the Draa’kon vessel blotted out half the stars. In a matter of moments, its disruptor beams would lance out at them again and finish the job they started.

  Suddenly, the counselor saw the Connharakt raked with blood-red phaser beams. The Draa’kon ship’s shields seemed to flicker under the impact.

  It gave Troi an idea. It was a longshot, granted, but nothing short of a longshot would save them at that point.

  She approached a small secondary console in the aft quarters of the shuttle. Its side was blackened, but it seemed basically intact.

  The counselor tried to touch it, but it was too hot for her to handle. She turned to Colossus, whose metallic body seemed capable of withstanding almost anything—including intense heat.

  “Hurry!” she told him. “I need you!”

  * * *

  Picard was about to give the order to fire again when the Connharakt spat another green disruptor bolt at the Pike.

  The bolt’s energy enveloped the shuttle, obscuring it from the captain’s view. Then the craft appeared again—but only long enough for him to watch it explode in a spectacle of white light and antimatter-fueled fury.

  My god, thought Picard, his heart sinking in his chest.

  He stared at the viewscreen, where all that was left of the Pike was a raggedly expanding collection of debris. He tried to come to grips with that fact, to absorb it.

  Troi … dead? It didn’t seem possible.

  The counselor had been with him since he took command of the Enterprise-D years earlier. She hadn’t just been a skilled and respected colleague. She had been a close and valued friend.

  And now …

  The captain swallowed. He felt empty. Numb.

  Nor was it only Troi he had lost in the explosion. Wolverine and Colossus had been destroyed along with her—and five of his surviving security officers as well.

  “Sir?” said Lt. Yeowell, who was manning Ops in Data’s absence. Picard turned to him.

  “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  Yeowell smiled hopefully at him—a strange thing to do at such a time. “Sir, I picked up evidence of transporter activity just before the shuttle was torn apart.”

  Picard looked at him, ready to grasp at any straw. “Transporter activity?” he repeated.

  “Yes, sir. But the away team didn’t transport back to the Enterprise.”

  The captain looked at him. “Then …”

  He turned to the viewscreen, where the Connharakt seemed to be veering away from the Enterprise. Was it possible … ?

  “They’ve beamed onto the bridge of the Draa’kon ship,” Yeowell reported, confirming Picard’s suspicion.

  “Hold your fire,” the captain told Ensign Suttles.

  After all, their own people were at risk on the Connharakt. All they could do for the moment was wait and see what happened.

  * * *

  High Implementor Isadjo grunted as he studied his scanplate, where one of the Connharakt’s pale-green disruptor beams had finally stabbed an Enterprise shuttle craft.

  Before the Implementor’s eyes, the scanplate blanched with white light. When it cleared, there was hardly anything left of the enemy craft. Vessel and crew had been destroyed.

  It was meager compensation for what Picard and his people had done to the Draa’kon’s plans on Xhaldia. However, Isadjo had yet to expend his energy stores. With a little luck, he would yet wreak havoc on—

  “Implementor!” roared one of his officers.

  Scowling, Isadjo turned in his command pod—and took in a sight he had never imagined he would see, even in his wildest lodge visions. As difficult as it was to believe, his bridge was peppered with Enterprise intruders.

  As the Implementor watched, spellbound, the enemy aimed their weapons and fired. His own people did the same. There were shouts of pain and surprise, and a seri
es of thuds as Draa’kon bodies hit the deck.

  In the melee, an energy inverter was punctured. It spewed thick, yellow gas across the bridge, making it difficult to see anything—except, of course, the energy bolts that continued to lance in every direction.

  Slipping his own weapon free of its sheathe, Isadjo got up from his pod and peered into the hissing, yellow miasma, waiting for an enemy to show himself. None did. But a moment later, one of the Implementor’s officers came hurtling out of the fog, his face bleeding freely from four parallel cuts.

  Isadjo cursed and took a step forward, trying to catch sight of a likely target. But before he could get very far, another of his officers spun free of the gas cloud, his tunic ripped and bloody.

  The Implementor didn’t like what was happening. His gill-flaps fluttered uncontrollably. His lips pulled back and a cry of rage filled his cranial cavities.

  “Show yourselves!” he demanded of the enemy. “Face me like warriors!”

  As if in response to Isadjo’s order, a trio emerged from the fog. One was Ettojh, his second-in-command, who was staggering backward under the influence of a powerful blow. Another was Cyggelh, his helmsman.

  And the third …

  The third was a figure clad in yellow and blue, with a mask covering half his face. The invader was grinning, as if he liked nothing better than fighting for his life in close and dangerous quarters.

  He wasn’t armed with a directed-energy device like his comrades. In fact, all he had in the way of weapons were the long, sharp clawlike things protruding from his knuckles.

  Nonetheless, he used them effectively. Before the Implementor’s eyes, the yellow-and-blue one slashed Ettojh’s disruptor from his grasp and delivered a savage kick to his midsection.

  Isadjo’s helmsman took advantage of the moment to fire, but the invader ducked and evaded the blast. Then he leaped on the Draa’kon like a ravening beast, sending him slamming into a bulkhead with skull-rattling force.

  As the helmsman slumped to the deck, Ettojh tried to grasp the intruder from behind. That too proved to be a mistake, as the yellow-and-blue one flipped Ettojh over his back.