Star Trek - Unification Part 5

"Most Romulans live in multi-unit structures known as 'takas.' There are few single-unit dwellings, and they are reserved for those in power. Population density in the capital city is forty thousand per square kilometer." Picard stretched his neck as he read from the information on the padd; they'd been at it for hours and he felt the stiffness throughout his body from having sat so long in the Klingon chair, which he had by now decided was a cleverly planned torture device.

"Pardek's neighborhood, Krocton segment," added Data, "is in one of the older parts of the city." He didn't read from a padd; he had undoubtedly absorbed every particle of intelligence contained in it some time ago and was now reciting from memory. "It is a lower-cla.s.s area of no architectural distinction. He has maintained a taka there for many years."

"Krocton segment," murmured Picard. "That's where we'll plan to transport." He looked up at Data and realized he was very glad indeed that he had brought this valued officer with him. The journey might have been even more of an ordeal if he had chosen to undertake it alone. Data's calm and steady presence was rea.s.suring; and certainly this cram-session study of the Romulans was more pleasurable with the two of them.

Picard rolled his neck again, working out the kinks. He felt genuinely weary, and realized it must be well past the time he usually retired.

"That's enough for me, Data," he said. "I think I'll turn in."

Data cast his eyes about the barren room. "Since I do not require sleep, I propose you take the-" The android hesitated, not sure what to call the dismal hole in the wall that was to pa.s.s for a bed. "-the shelfi I will be content to stand."

"Very well, Mr. Data. Thank you." Picard headed toward the shelf, eyeing it warily. It was about four feet off the deck-an awkward position for entering -and only about two feet in height. Getting into the d.a.m.ned thing would require an act of contortion. Picard felt ungainly and clumsy as he climbed in, cracking his head and both his shins during the process.

Once he was settled, he found himself lying on a bare board surface, staring up at the underside of the shelf barely more than a foot away. He rolled his head to the side and saw Data staring at him imperturbably. "Are you comfortable, sir?" he asked.

"I suppose so," replied Picard evenly.

"Then good night, Captain. Sleep well."

"Thank you."

Picard closed his eyes, determined to relax and get the sleep he knew he needed. He'd slept in uncomfortable places before, after all; it was merely a matter of concentrating, of blocking outside annoyances and allowing the mind to drift aimlessly... perhaps enhanced by a bit of fantasy... a restful lagoon, a tropical breeze, exotic trees bending in the warm winds... waves lapping on a sh.o.r.e...

His eyes snapped open and he turned toward Data. "What are you doing?"

Data looked puzzled and concerned. -~lrf was l making noise?" "Not exactly."

"I was processing information we have acc.u.mulated on Romulan society. I am preparing for the task of impersonating a Romulan." "I see." "Would you like me to discontinue?"

"No, no. Please go ahead." Picard was annoyed with himself. Of course he couldn't hear Data processing information; it was a silent function, just like thought. It was just that he knew Data was doing it. He could almost see the circuitry in Data's head, blinking and twinkling as millions of bits of information sped along his neutral nets. Of course, maybe it did make a sound, no matter how slight, and that could explain why Picard found it difficult to relax, knowing that all those remarkable functions were occurring in the positronic brain of someone not four feet from him- His eyes opened again and he almost gasped as he saw Data staring at him. "What are you looking at?"

Again, Data was puzzled. "I am not looking at anything, sir. I am continuing to organize my files."

"But you're looking at me."

"I am sorry if I am disturbing you, sir. I will not look in your direction." And he swiveled so that the back of his head was toward Picard. The captain eyed him for a moment, feeling sheepish and annoyed at the same time. He realized it had been many years since he had had what might qualify as a roommate, and even then, at Starfleet Academy, it was not an arrangement he particularly savored.

"Mr. Data..."

"Yes, sir?"

"Could you possibly-sleep?"

"I do not think so, sir."

"I see." Picard closed his eyes once more. He was not going to be defeated. He was a man used to taking charge of his circ.u.mstances; quieting the mind required only certain techniques of relaxation and focus... relaxation ... focus...

Relaxation ... focus...

Relaxation...

Picard crawled out from the confining s.p.a.ce. Data looked at him with quizzical eyes. "Sir? Do you not wish to sleep?"

"I don't think so. Shall we continue to go over the files?"

"I would be happy to." Without further ado, Data began rattling off facts. "I have been studying Krocton segment, as you asked, and have selected several appropriate sites for our transport. I will describe each of them to you."

Picard stifled a yawn and sat once more in the chair of pain.

By 0900 hours the next morning, the Enterprise was within hailing range of Qualor Two, and Riker instructed Worf to make contact. He was too impatient to wait until they achieved orbit. It seemed to take forever for Worf to establish the connection, but finally the Klingon announced from his tactical station that he had been successful.

"On screen," Riker ordered, rising and stepping forward, eager to speak to the Zakdorn who might unlock some of the mysteries of his mission.

The humanoid who appeared before him was not at all what Riker expected. He was grizzled and worn, a graying hulk who had perhaps taken on the aspect of the abandoned ships he oversaw. He looked vaguely surprised, as though he had been interrupted in the middle of something. A small frown knotted his brow; the characteristic Zakdorn folds in the skin of his face seemed draped in remonstration.

"I'm Commander William Riker of the Federation starship Enterprise," said Riker, in an amiable fashion.

"Klim Dokachin here, quartermaster of Surplus Depot Zed-one-five." The man's tone was terse, unin-viting, offering nothing more than a statement of fact.

"We need some information about a Vulcan ship, the T'Pau," continued Riker. "It was sent there a few years ago." "Did you arrange an appointment?"

Riker was sure he looked as startled as he felt. The question was completely unexpected.

"Appointment? No..."

"Then I can't help you. Communicate with Scheduling."

And with that the transmission was abruptly ended and Riker found himself staring at a starfield. He was nonplussed. He turned to Counselor Deanna Trot for vindication. "Who does this guy think he is?"

But Troi's dark eyes sparkled as she replied calmly, "The quartermaster of the surplus yard, Commander. With information you need."

Riker absorbed that for a moment. It was Troi's way of' communicating that he would need to use a different tactic if he wanted to get information from this recalcitrant old bureaucrat. He drew a breath. "Right. Mr. Worf, reestablish communication."

"Yes, sir."

A moment later Dokachin appeared on the screen once more, somewhat taken aback at having been interrupted again. Riker gave him a friendly smile. "Mr. Dokachin-"

That was as far as he got before the man interrupted. "Ahchin. Klim Dokahchin."

Riker took a breath. "Mr. Dokahchin, the information I need involves a matter of major importance to the Federation."

"Yes?" Dokachin looked unimpressed.

"I'll need access to your logs, your files..." he trailed off, but Dokachin made no reply. He plunged ahead gamely. "It won't take long... my people can do the work."

There was a lengthy pause. Dokachin stroked his chin, drummed his fingers, and looked at the ceiling. Finally, he announced, "I don't let outsiders into my computer system."

"Fine. One of your people, then ..." Riker would have agreed to anything to overcome this annoying obstacle.

"Wish I had the people to spare. I don't."

Riker made himself stay calm, but he could feel his heart starting to punch a little harder. There was an edge to his voice as he asked, "Well, sir-what would you suggest?" "I don't know. Contact me when you reach orbit." And the starfield returned. Riker turned again to Trot, pulsing with indignation. "I don't believe him." But Troi's beautiful mouth curled into a wry smile.

"He's king of his particular hill, Commander. You'll have to treat him that way."

Riker stared at her, and didn't miss a beat as he replied, "Counselor-a perfect job for you."

And he sat. One of the requisites of command was the ability to delegate responsibility. This was one case in which he was only too glad to do so.

Counselor Deanna Troi stifled the smile that sprang to her lips when Will Riker pa.s.sed the responsibility of dealing with Klim Dokachin to her. She wasn't surprised, and she really couldn't blame him-the man was irritating, no question. And he was the kind that an impatient man like Will would have a lot of trouble tolerating.

Troi didn't mind being a.s.signed the handling of Dokachin; it fell well within the boundaries of her responsibilities on board the Enterprise. One reason she enjoyed her post was the opportunity to rise to the unique challenges involved in dealing with alien personalities.

But the more races she encountered, the more she was aware of the constants. There were far more similarities than dissimilarities in the psyches of the mult.i.tudes of species she had experienced. Most responded to nurturing, kindness, compa.s.sion, and understanding. Most disliked a.s.sault, rudeness, insensitivity, and humiliation. This meant that it was usually wise for her to follow her own empathic instincts when meeting a new race.

She frankly thought dealing with Klim Dokachin would be like melting b.u.t.ter. He seemed transparent to her in his need for ego stroking. He was a being whose ident.i.ty was deeply involved with his work, who derived his satisfaction from the execution of his duties, and who wanted to be recognized for his expertise. It would not be difficult to give him what he needed.

Gazing out at the starfield as they raced toward Qualor Two, Troi felt a momentary twinge of melan-choly. She had been in some turmoil lately, examining her life and trying to come to some decisions about her priorities. She did not particularly enjoy this process; by nature she was given to equanimity, and tended to accept life as it was dealt to her without a great deal of angst or examination.

But something extraordinary had happened to her recently, and she felt irreparably changed by it. The whole experience had taken less than twenty hours, and yet she knew that it had altered her life.

It had been a strange set of circ.u.mstances that had led to the situation. She was on the bridge with Chief O'Brien when Will Riker was busy elsewhere and the captain had taken three young winners of the school science fair on a tour. A chance phenomenon, the collision with a quantum filament, had catastrophical-ly damaged the Enterprise and killed the bridge duty officer, Lieutenant Monroe.

Sealed off from the rest of the ship, with communications systems down, Troi found herself the ranking officer on the bridge-and as such, acting captain.

It had been frightening at first; she wasn't familiar with emergency protocols and if it hadn't been for O'Brien and Ensign Ro she would have floundered.

But the situation called for her to make a difficult and risky command decision, one in which she had to reject the intelligent option for which Ro argued eloquently. She had stood everyone down, trusting her own instincts-and won the day.

A horrible phrase came to mind, one she knew was used in reference to Terran animals: the taste of blood. It was said that a newborn wild animal who had lost its mother might be tamed if it were retrieved shortly after birth. But if it were allowed the taste ofblood-a fresh kill-its feral nature would be stirred, and the animal would revert to its primitive state, never again satisfied with the tepid pleasures of domesticity.

The phrase had been running through Troi's head ever since she had risen to the moment and captained the ship in a time of crisis. Since then, nothing had come close to providing the heady excitement of that experience. She performed her tasks competently, and she was sure no one was aware of her inner confusion. But the world of the Enterprise seemed to her drawn in tones of sepia-colorless and pale. She felt an indescribable yearning for something wild and potent in her life, something extraordinary.

Her mother, she knew, would tap into those feelings instantly if she were on board. But her solution was not one that would satisfy Troi. Lwaxana was still entreating her to abandon this demanding career, return to Betazed, get married, and have children. Troi believed that someday she would probably do just that-but she wasn't anywhere near ready. Lwaxana's pleas had far more to do with her desire to become a grandmother than with Deanna's desire for home and hearth.

"We are approaching the orbital surplus yard of Qualor Two," announced Worf, and Troi noted that she was comforted by the gruff, sure tones of the Klingon. She gazed at the viewscreen and saw that they were coming on an incredible sight: a vast ocean of s.p.a.ceships-old, abandoned, decommis-sioned-stretching as far as the sensors could see, a graveyard of once proud ships from throughout the Federation. It was an eerie sight, this silent armada of ghostly vessels, and she realized with a sudden shiver that each of those abandoned hulks represented stories of ordeal, daring, and mystery. She thrilled for a moment to imagine the incredible events that had befallen them. And wondered if ever again she would taste the raw excitement of untrammeled adventure.

Deanna honestly didn't know just what it was she was seeking. She was sure, however, that if it presented itself, she would recognize it.

Riding the turbolift from the Enterprise transporter room, Klim Dokachin fought dizziness. Transporter technology had been introduced to his planet when they became members of the Federation, and he had not adapted well to it. He'd thought of holding firm in his insistence that the officers of the starship Enterprise come to him if they wanted his records so badly; but in the end he couldn't resist the opportunity to see what the magnificent vessel looked like. When the turbolift door opened and he stepped onto the bridge, he was glad he'd done so.

He felt the eyes of the bridge crew as he took his time gazing around, and he was glad he had on his best outfit-one that held the emblems of merit he had achieved through his work. They would realize this was no raw novice they were dealing with.

As he inspected the bridge of the vast starship, he could sense the anxiousness of the crew. The tall one with the beard, with whom he'd spoken on the communicator, was particularly impatient. Well, he could wait. Klim Dokachin was doing this on his terms, and he wasn't about to be hurried. "Thank you for coming on board, Mr. Dokachin." That from the bearded one. He was trying to win him over; Klim could hear it in his voice. Well, maybe he'd be won over, maybe not. He'd take his time before he decided how he felt about that one.

He strolled down the ramp and inspected Ops and Conn. Everything was immaculate, shining, function-al. Dokachin thought it was perhaps the most beautiful ship he'd ever seen. "Not bad," he said dryly.

The beard was following him around the bridge, trying to get his attention. "We've tied into your computers. If you could access the files..."

Dokachin continued his slow tour, inspecting the consoles and the forward turbolift. "I don't usually see them in such good condition. By the time they get to me, they're falling apart."

From the comer of his eye, Dokachin could see the beard turn and look at someone-a woman in a form-fitting gray jumpsuit. She began to move toward him and Klim turned to meet her.

She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

He had never found humans particularly attractive -the way their skin was so tightly drawn over the bones of their faces looked positively painful-and this woman looked human. Though there was something different about her eyes-they were the darkest black imaginable. Her hair was black, too, but her skin was pale and delicate. Too taut, but delicate.

"Mr. Dokachin, we must find this ship-and you're the only one who can help us." Her voice was gentle, and her eyes were friendly as she smiled at him. And Klim Dokachin realized that what made her beautiful was not the way she looked, but what was within. There was a beautiful soul within this woman, and it shone from her like a radiant moonrise.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Deanna Troi, ship's counselor."

Dokachin moved closer to her, nodded his head toward Riker. "He probably figures we don't get to see women like you very often. And you might get more cooperation from me." He smirked inwardly that he was one step ahead of the beard.

Then he looked into those black eyes again. "He's probably right," he said, and found himself moving to one of the consoles at the aft portion of the bridge, the beautiful woman following. The beard trailed along. Klim began expertly keying instructions into the computer, hoping that the woman would realize how proficient he was at his task.

"The T'Pau, wasn't it? Vulcan registry..." He gestured as the information instantly leapt to the screen. "There. Logged in on Stardate 41334."

"Where is the ship now?" Klim looked up at the sound of a different voice. This might be a nonhuman, he wasn't sure. The skin was dark and the being wore a device around his eyes.

"Docked," Klim replied. "Section eighteen-gamma-twelve. Want me to take you over there?"

"I'd appreciate that," the beard said.

"Helmsman," said Dokachin with a touch of command in his voice, "lay in a heading one-four-one by two-zero-eight. Ahead slow, two hundred kph."

They'd realize he knew his way around ships before he was done. Knew his way around before most of them had been born, probably.

He noted that the helmsman didn't act on the command until the beard had nodded to him. That was irritating for an instant, until the beautiful wom-an fastened these melting black eyes on him and said, in her haunting voice, "It must be so difficult to keep track of all these ships. How ever do you do it?"

Dokachin smiled at her. He'd pegged her right away as a woman of intelligent curiosity. She would appreciate the near genius of his cla.s.sification procedure, with its dozens of systems and subsystems. His peers found it so complex and intricate that they had trouble following it, but Klim was sure that this woman would not only grasp it but value its elaborate mysteries.

"Well," he said, settling himself next to her, "the first problem is the initial gross a.s.sessment. Now, you may think that's a simple task, but that's where people get into trouble right at the start."

The woman nodded, and Klim knew he had her riveted.