Star Trek - Unification Part 3

Guinan, who tended the lounge on the Enterprise known as Ten-Forward, a woman possessed of mysterious and undeniable metaphysical capacities- capacities which Picard had learned to trust-had insisted that, somehow, Sela was the daughter of Tasha.

Nothing in Picard's experience could explain just who Sela was. But she intruded into his memories nonetheless.

Picard looked up and realized that Worf was staring at him expectantly, wanting to continue the conversation. The captain nodded.

"Gowron," said Worf, "has been rewriting Klingon history." His eyes shone with a particular intensity, which, abetted by the fearsome aspect of his ridged forehead and his towering height, gave him a formidable appearance. "Rewriting history?" queried Riker.

"He is claiming," said Worf, "that it was his courage-his genius-that brought about an end to the civil war." "I see."

"In the new version, there is no mention made of the Federation's help in his rise to power." That's why Worf was angry; his captain had been slighted. Picard himself took a more sanguine view. He allowed himself a wry smile.

"It's all right, Mr. Worf. Victors usually rewrite history books. He can take every bit of credit; I'll gladly grant him that. But I need a ship."

Picard considered the situation for a moment, and then said, "If Gowron won't talk to me, get somebody who will, somebody on the High Council, K'Tal perhaps."

"Yes, Captain," said Worf, not happy with this compromise. Picard turned toward Data, who was studying a monitor.

"Captain," he said, "I have a visual identification of Senator Pardek of Romulus." Picard sat with him and Data activated the monitor.

Picard saw what appeared to be a video log of several Romulans and another alien engaged in what looked like a handshaking session. As they watched, Data explained, "This is a Barolian record of a trade negotiation in which Pardek partic.i.p.ated four years ago."

Abruptly, the monitor went blank. "That's all?" queried Picard.

"Yes, sir."

"Run it again."

Data activated the sequence once more, and Picard studied it intently. There was a familiarity to one of the Romulans-had he seen that face before? He tapped a command and it froze on a closeup of the man's face. "Call up the intelligence scan of Spock on Romulus," he directed Data.

And on the screen appeared the shot of Spock that Admiral Brackett had shown him days ago. With him was a Romulan-and Picard realized he was right. "Same man," he stated. "Pardek."

Pardek looked to be in his fifties, but Romulans, like Vulcans, had long life spans and Picard had no guess as to Pardek'$ true age. If Spock had met him eighty years ago, they were probably nearly the same age-in the fourth decade of their second hundred years.

Pardek was a bit hefty, too-somewhat unusual for a Romulan. He had a round, almost puckish face that gave him a grandfatherly look. He was a bit unique for a Romulan, and Picard was glad for that. He would need to pick Pardek out of a crowd. "What do we know of him?" he asked. Picard knew that Data would already have absorbed everything available about Pardek, and Data did not disappoint him, reeling off the information from memory. "He has been in public service since he was a young man, a senator for nine decades. He is considered a 'man of the people,' and has sponsored many reforms. Reportedly, he is considered by the Romulan leadership to be something of a radical because he has been an advocate for peace throughout his career."

"I can see why Spock would cultivate a relationship with him," reflected Picard. "Where are we likely to find him-other than on the floor of the Romulan Senate?"

"The district he represents is called Krocton segment. He maintains a dwelling there."

Picard stared at the image on the monitor. This is the man he would have to find, the man who might lead him to Spock. Pardek of Romulus...

"There is more, sir," said Data, breaking into his nmsing. "I took the liberty of expanding the parameters of my search, and have discovered that Pardek has several relatives in Krocton segment. It is likely that you will be able to locate him there on the third day of the Romulan week, when the Senate is not in session."

Picard smiled at this. "Your resourcefulness never ceases to amaze me, Mr. Data," he said truthfully.

"Thank you, sir."

An idea was forming in Picard's mind. His original thinking had been to go to Romulus alone; one man would cause less suspicion than two, one man was more mobile-and if things went wrong, only one man would be lost.

But a second pair of eyes, a second a.n.a.lytical mind, an unflappable presence for support... "If I ever get to Romulus," he said, "I'm going to need help. I'd like you to accompany me."

The android's face reflected both his puzzlement and his pleasure. "Me, sir?" "Yes."

"I understand how you can be made to look Romulan, sir. But I believe it will be more difficult to transform an android."

"I think Doctor Crusher can come up with something."

"Captain!" Worf's deep voice rang through the bridge. "We are being hailed by the Klingon home world."

Pleased, Picard moved toward him. No cause for alarm, after all, in spite of Worf's anxieties. "Gowron or K'TaI?" he asked.

"Neither, sir." There was the briefest of pauses, and then Worf admitted, "It is the junior adjutant to the diplomatic delegation."

A definite slight. Picard briefly considered his response, then moved toward the viewscreen, asking Worf as he pa.s.sed, "Name?"

"B'ijik, sir."

"On screen."

B'ijik's outward appearance was traditionally Klingon, though the bony ridge of his skull and forehead was somewhat less p.r.o.nounced than some, and his long, stringy hair perhaps more tailored. But it was his att.i.tude that leapt off the screen and a.s.saulted Picard. This was a small-minded person, unctuous and officious, who basked in the reflected glory of his superior. He was one of those minions in the ranks of the mighty who have the authority to say "no," but never "yes," and who delight in wielding that small cudgel of power.

"Greetings, Captain," he began breezily. "I am B'ijik, adjutant to Gowron. I regret to inform you that he is quite busy with the High Council and won't be able to speak with you today."

"Is he aware that we've been transmitting messages for three days?"

B'ijik's surprise was clearly feigned. "Messages? I'll have to inspect the logs... but I'm sure we haven't received any."

The captain's eyes narrowed. This smarmy little obfuscator was irritating, but Picard kept his voice carefully modulated. "Nonetheless, if you tell Gowron that I have arrived, I'm certain that he will want to talk with me."

B'ijik's smile was simpering and dismissive at once. "Captain, Gowron wishes it were possible to talk with everyone who wants an audience. But he is one man. The demands on his time are formidable. If you would like me to take him a message... "A message. Very well."

There was a brief moment as Picard stepped forward, working to control the indignation that rose in him at being treated like this by a weaseling functio-nary. When he spoke, it was a voice that the bridge crew recognized: quiet but foreboding.

"Tell Gowron, Leader of the High Council of the Klingon Empire, that his Arbiter of Succession, Jean-Luc Picard, needs a favor."

"A favor?"

"1 require a cloaked vessel."

A faint and condescending smile appeared on B'ijik's lips. "A cloaked vessel. This is no small favor, Captain."

"lt is for a mission that could have repercussions throughout the quadrant."

"How would it benefit the Klingon Empire? I'm sure Gowron will ask."

Picard had to take a long moment to control his temper. He longed to give this officious junior officer a tongue-lashing he would remember to his grave, but instead, he said quietly, "The only benefit to the Klingon Empire... would be our grat.i.tude."

B'ijik smirked. "That's what you want me to tell Gowron?"

"Yes. And please add that if he is unable to provide a ship, I am sure there are others in the Klingon Empire who would be willing to help me. And then they would have-our grat.i.tude."

That simple statement hung in the air for a mo-ment. Picard knew he had scored, knew that B'ijik was running in his mind the list of Gowron's enemies and had found it formidable. "I see," he replied.

"Also please tell him that 1 am immensely gratified that he is prospering so well. It is a tribute to his skilled leadership."

B'ijik made no reply to this, merely inclined his head, as though glad to be done with this conversation. His image disappeared and the starfield returned to view. Picard turned around to see Riker had come on the bridge and was listening to this interchange with amus.e.m.e.nt. "Nicely done," he offered.

"We'll see." Adrenaline was coursing through Picard's veinstoa pleasurable sensation. He enjoyed a challenge and liked getting a bit lathered up now and then. Good for the circulatory system.

Chapter Five.

48.

THE SENSATION IN his ear was peculiar: at first a chilling sensation as the interferometric scanner was turned on, and then a slight ringing in his ear-not painful, but somehow unsettling. He was relieved when the process was complete and a three-dimensional model of his ears had been registered in the computer.

He watched as Beverly Crusher turned to inspect Data's ears. The elegantly beautiful doctor, with her porcelain skin and her strawberry red hair, was concentrating fiercely as she peered into the android's ear ca.n.a.l. Data was obediently turning his head this way and that, at Doctor Crusher's request.

They had been in sickbay for half an hour, discussing the necessary prosthetics that would be necessary to transform both him and Data into Romulans. He had every confidence in Beverly; she had accomplished these sophisticated conversions before.

"They aren't removable, are they, Data?" he now heard Beverly ask.

"Removable, Doctor?" queried Data, uncertain as to her precise meaning. "Your ears."

"No, Doctor. They are fully integrated components."

Crusher turned to her a.s.sistant. "We'll need molds of his ears, too." The a.s.sistant turned to reconfigure the computer, and to scan Data's ears. "What about his skin color?" Picard asked. Beverly eyed Data's unique pale skin covering and considered for a moment. "We'll have to do some tests with his pigmentation. Changing it to appear Romulan shouldn't be too hard. I just want to be sure we can change it back again afterwards."

Perhaps he wouldn't mind changing skin color, thought Picard briefly, and then realized that Beverly was coming at him with yet another scanner, which she proceeded to point at his forehead. It was at that moment that he saw Will Riker enter sickbay and stifle a smile at the scrutinizing the captain was undergoing.

"Your right eye," Beverly announced seriously, "is four thousandth higher than the left." "It is not," retorted Picard, and she grinned at him.

"You want a proper fit on your prosthesis? Trust your tailor."

Picard saw Riker from the corner of his eye, appraising him and the device Beverly continued to move about his face.

"I won't tell a soul about your eyes, sir," Riker said with mock seriousness.

"Anything from Gowron?" asked Picard. The crew had had quite enough fun at his expense. He was becoming eager to get this demeaning procedure over with and get on with his business.

"No, sir. But after your tailor is done, would you join me in the cargo bay? La Forge has made some progress on those metal fragments."

But apparently Doctor Crusher wasn't ready to release her hold on him. "These two still have to report to Mister Mot to get their hairpieces designed," she cautioned. Picard groaned inwardly. The blue-skinned barber would talk his ear off, protracting the process from half an hour to twice that.

Well, he'd have to control the situation. He'd give Mot a half-hour and no more. "Thirty minutes, Number One," he said firmly. Riker nodded and exited.

"Hold still," said Beverly. "I'll never get these measurements right."

The way Mot saw it, a lot of people in Starfleet did a lot of things they just didn't think through too clearly. Take the time they'd delivered Amba.s.sador T'Pel to the Romulans. If they'd asked Mot about that one, he would have told them never to rendezvous with Admiral Mendak. You just had to know that was a questionable move, and sure enough it resulted in handing over a spy with twenty years of cla.s.sified Starfleet information to reveal to the enemy.

Maybe it was because he had more time to think things out than the average Starfleet officer. His job as ship's barber gave him time to ponder. That's what some of these high-ranking people didn't seem to do. Ponder. Look at things from all sides, turn a situation upside down and backwards and inside out and then back straight on again. Pondering was a unique ability, and one that Mot prided himself on having developed to a fine turn.

That's why it didn't make a lot of sense to him that he wasn't consulted more frequently. He had many times correctly predicted the outcome of one situation or another-usually while the people on the bridge were busy running into themselves or whatever it was they did up there. He was sure he could save everyone a lot of time and trouble if they'd let him get to the heart of the matter and tell them what to do.

Of course, he frequently got the chance to make his views known anyway. The captain came in regularly for a trim, as did commanders Riker and La Forge. You can bet that he didn't miss the opportunity to point out a few of their wrong choices. And they seemed to appreciate it. Eventually, he was sure, they would realize what a prize they had in him and would insist that he not hide his light in the barbershop but join them in important strategy sessions. It was just a matter of time.

Today, he had some very important matters to discuss with the captain. Picard and Commander Data were coming in to get fitted for Romulan hair forms, and Mot intended to show the captain how knowledgeable he was about this current mission. He had no doubt the captain would be amazed.

"All, Captain! And Commander Data!" he greeted them as they entered his establishment.

"Mr. Mot, how are you?" asked the captain in his gracious manner. He was a gentleman, no doubt about it.

"Fine, fine," replied Mot. "You gentlemen have a seat and I'll start right in."

"That would be good, Mr. Mot. We're on a rather tight schedule. I have to meet Commander Riker in just half an hour."

"We'll have you out of here in no time," breezed Mot, quickly measuring the captain's skull with an optical scanner. "Let's see... I think I've got the basic hair form right here, we'll just see how it fits."

He drew from his supplies a brown hairpiece, which would eventually attach to the scalp with an epider-mal adhesive. He placed it in position on the captain's head and inspected it. It was the correct fit, but the hair would have to be trimmed into a Romulan cut; now it was of one length and fell over Picard's eyes, rather like a sheepdog in winter.

"Well, Captain, sounds like you're off on quite an adventure," he began, as he began snipping at the hair form with a laser edge. "Now, mind you, I know it's supposed to be a somewhat secret mission, but of course these things have a way of getting around, and since I'm to make you a Romulan hair form I can certainly put one and one together and get an answer, if you know what I mean."

"Um-hmm," replied the captain, whose eyes were still obscured with hair.

"Of course, I'm not so easily taken in that I think you're actually on your way to Romulus. That would be too obvious, and a man like you would never go in such a straight line. Right?" "I suppose..."

"So, it stands to reason that the Romulan thing is intended to throw everybody off. Make us think you're heading for Romulus, so you can get to your real goal while we're misdirected." "Mmrnmm."

"And, all in all, not a bad plan. Everyone looks rightmyou go left. I like it." "Thank you."

"Now, maybe you'll use the Romulan getup, maybe you won't. I'm betting you will. You're going under-cover as a Romulan-but not to Romulus. So the question becomes, where would you go as a Romulan that wouldn't bring suspicion? And I think I know the answer to that." "Ah."

Mot snipped and clipped for a moment, drawing out the moment. He knew the captain was wondering if he could possibly have figured out the real Plan. And wouldn't he be astonished to find out that Mot-Mot, the barbeft-had deduced what was really going on.