Strike Zone Part 6

"Now that is surprising," grunted the Kreel.

"Klingons have said in the past they'd rather consume their young alive than sit down and discuss any of our grievances."

"That's in the past."

"They spit whenever our name is mentioned."

"I find that difficult to believe," deadpanned Nagai.

"Obviously it took the threat of advanced weaponry to bring them around. Clearly they're frightened of us now. That being the case," he said cannily, "why should we bother to talk with them? Let there be war."

"And if there is," said Nagai tightly, "the Federation would have to support its allies, namely the Klingons. Are you prepared to go to war with the entire Federation?"

The answer was immediate: "Yes."

They stared at each other over the communications screen for a long moment, and then the Kreel said indifferently, "However ... if the Klingons wish to come together, the Kreel can show that in strength there is also compa.s.sion. They think of us as savages. But we can be ... civilized."

Taka Nagai didn't buy that for a second, but she was willing to accept anything if it meant somehow heading off interstellar war. And with the number of skirmishes between the Klingons and Kreel growing, the Federation had to do something now.

Even, she thought ruefully, telling each side that the other had been willing to take the first step. A dangerous game, diplomacy, but then again, so was war. The only difference was that diplomacy was about the preserving of lives, and war was about the taking.

And so, walking a tightrope with razorblades as nets, Taka Nagai began to discuss specifics with the representative of the Kreel ...

Chapter Four.

THE TEN-FORWARD, or "Ten-Four Room" as it had been nicknamed, was packed. This was usually the case after a particularly difficult situation: crew members gathered here to knock back gla.s.ses of synthehol and describe how they were never really concerned during whatever emergency had just occurred. No problem at all.

Guinan looked up from behind the bar as Wesley entered. He walked up to her and forced a smile. Guinan nodded in acknowledgment.

"Club soda?" she asked noncommitally.

Wesley shook his head. "Synthehol."

Guinan raised an eyebrow. "Didn't see you as much of a synth man, myself, Wes," she said. "Is that what you really want?" She paused, hand poised over the dispenser.

Wesley hesitated and then sighed. "Club soda's fine."

"Uh-huh." As if by magic a club soda appeared in front of him. From nearby, he heard someone say, "To the Ferengi!" and others took up the toast. The Ten-Four Room was the only place one would ever hear something nice said about the Ferengi. That was because it was that race of s.p.a.cegoing "Yankee Traders" who had first developed synthehol, the drink that acted like alcohol when it hit the system, but with effects that could be dismissed from one's consciousness at will.

At first it was not generally known that synthehol existed. You would simply be drinking with a Ferengi, matching him drink-for-drink, and the next thing you knew you were totally blasted and making ludicrous bargains with a Ferengi salesman who was, mysteriously, stone-cold sober. When word got out, the Ferengi were upset over their secret ace becoming common knowledge. But they quickly, and rather unexpectedly, discovered that there was now so much demand for the beverage that whatever money they lost in tricking hapless victims was more than made up for by straight sales of synthehol.

Still, despite its no-hangover status, synthehol was still considered an adult's drink. Therefore, Wesley's abortive request for it was more than enough to pique Guinan's interest.

"Something bothering you?" she asked.

Wesley stared at Guinan. He had never quite been able to figure her out. She looked mostly human, but there were traces of some alien race that he couldn't quite identify. He knew Picard had had a lot to do with getting Guinan a.s.signed to the Enterprise, but he wasn't sure why.

"No. Well"- and he didn't know why, but he always felt as if he had to tell her what was really on his mind-"Well, yes. But it's nothing I really want to talk about."

"Feeling sorry for yourself."

"I'm just a little depressed, okay?" said Wesley. "Is that a crime? Normal people get to be depressed."

"Oh, I don't know." Guinan smiled. "People always seem to want to cheer up someone when they see them feeling down. It's part of human nature."

"Well, I wish it was part of human nature to know when someone wants to be left alone," said Wesley, nursing his club soda.

"No problem here," said Guinan.

There was a tap on Wesley's shoulder, and he turned as Guinan said, "Please don't touch Wesley. He wants to be left alone."

"Sorry," said Jaan. "I'll just move along then."

"No, it's okay!" said Wesley. "I didn't mean you."

"Well, okay. If you're sure." Jaan took a seat next to Wesley, who stared at him and frowned.

"What are you looking at?" Jaan asked.

"You. Are you feeling okay?"

Jaan made a dismissive noise. "Never felt better."

Guinan leaned forward, Wesley's concern mirrored on her own face. "Are you sure you're feeling okay? You look a bit flushed."

Jaan and Guinan stared at each other, and Wesley got the distinct impression that there was some sort of unspoken struggle going on between the two of them. He looked from one to the other, feeling like a spectator at a tennis match.

"No, I'm not. Not sure, that is," Jaan said with sudden candor. "I had some stomach cramps earlier, and I've been feeling a little rocky."

"Do you know what it is?" asked Guinan.

Once again, they stared at each other, and now, to Wesley's astonishment, Jaan jumped to his feet, his legs shaking under him. "I've ... I've got to go, now."

Guinan reached out toward him, to put her hand on his forearm. "Wait, Jaan."

"No!" shouted Jaan and spun away from Guinan as if she had a poison touch.

Wesley shouted Jaan's name, and now everyone in the Ten-Four Room had totally forgotten whatever they were talking about as they turned and stared at the suddenly-belligerent elf.

"Stop looking at me!" Jaan snarled. "All of you!"

"Jaan!" shouted Wesley.

"You too, Orange!" He pulled away from Wesley with such speed and force that he tripped himself up and fell to the ground. It was a stunning moment, for elves were noted for their grace and smoothness. Jaan pulled himself to his feet and fell once more.

And now the other crew members were stirred from their surprise and came forward. Jaan was twisting on the floor, his arms wrapped around his stomach, and he was moaning softly, his legs curled up. Guinan had punched a comm link and was summoning a team from sickbay.

"Hold on," said Wesley, and he was holding the pained elf in his arms. "Just hold on, Jaan. It'll be okay. Everything'll be fine. My m-Dr. Pulaski," he quickly corrected himself, "will take care of everything. She'll know what's wrong with you."

"What the devil is it?"

Picard was staring at the device that had been beamed in to the cargo transporter room, taken without so much as a by-your-leave by the Enterprise from the frustrated (and subsequently dead) Kreel.

It was extraordinarily small, about four feet long. In evidence were traces of the mounting brackets that had been used to attach the gleaming cylinder to the underside of the Kreel ship. Also in evidence were certain dials and settings with markings that Picard couldn't even begin to understand. While Data studied the markings, his face as ever giving no indication what thoughts were running through his android mind, Geordi was poking around near the rear of the cylinder. Both of them were being certain to stay clear of what was clearly the gun's business end.

"Here," said Geordi, pointing. "Here are the modifications the Kreel made so it could be operated from within their vessel."

"They clearly had every confidence in this little bit of gadgetry," observed Picard. "Too much, in fact. They thought they were invincible, and it never occurred to them that we might simply remove their little popgun."

"Overconfidence," said Riker, "or simply inexperience. Remember, the Kreel still haven't fully developed transporter technology."

"Yes, and no member of the Federation, or any of the more advanced races, has been particularly interested in giving it to them. Even the Ferengi won't deal with them ... "

Geordi glanced up. "I thought the Ferengi dealt with anyone."

Riker looked at Geordi with bemus.e.m.e.nt (and wondered distantly whether Geordi, who could detect so much that was unseen, was able to perceive something as delicate as a smile), and said, "Not even the Ferengi want to give a lit match to the child in the tinderbox."

And now it was Data who registered curiosity. "Tinderbox?"

Riker said, "In the days when people lit their houses with fires, they'd keep it in a box outside the house, so it would be dry."

"How did they light the wood? I a.s.sume this was before phasers."

"Slightly. They used matches."

"Ah. Then I do not understand the problem," said Data with that maddening manner he had.

"What," said Picard with resignation, knowing they wouldn't get out of this until Data's endless curiosity was satisfied, "what is it that you don't understand?"

"If matches are what is required to light tinder, then what is wrong with giving one to the child in order to light it? If it is necessary ... "

"Yes, but if the child is in the box, then he burns up himself, and possibly the entire town."

"Ah!" said Data. "I understand."

There were sighs of relief from all around, and Picard opened his mouth to finally bring the conversation back on track.

"How did the child get in the tinderbox?" asked Data.

"His parents locked him in there because he asked too many d.a.m.ned questions!" said Picard.

Data nodded, his gold eyes thoughtful. "That was probably very wise of them."

"Captain," Geordi said quickly before Data could send the conversation spinning in another direction, "this weapon seems extremely powerful for its size."

"It certainly made short work of our shields," agreed Picard, looking over the weapon carefully. "Any thoughts how?"

"My guess is that it simply disrupted them somehow," said Geordi. "I mean, if it had actually cut through them, with some sort of high-intensity beam or something, it would have kept on going and sliced us apart as well."

Data was studying the glyphs carefully. "It may well have been capable of that," he said. "If I am deciphering this correctly, the weapon was on its lowest setting."

Geordi and Picard looked at each other. "You're joking," said Picard.

"Joking? Most unlikely, sir," said Data.

"Of course, I know that, but ... how are you able to translate the symbols?"

Data turned his unblinking, amber gaze on Picard. "There have been similar markings on artifacts found scattered throughout the galaxy in various archeological digs," he said.

"Incredible," said Geordi. "He doesn't know what a tinderbox is, but he can translate glyphs from dusty archeological digs."

"Actually, they were quite sanitary-"

"Data, let's not lose the point here ... again," said Picard. "The Kreel ... were they able to read the markings and adjust it? And how were they able to?"

"Oh, I doubt it very much, sir, considering what we know of the Kreel. It is far more likely that they simply used the weapon as is, with no real understanding of how to modify it beyond tying it into their shipboard functions."

"So you're saying that, rather than having developed it themselves, the Kreel probably found this weapon."

"Probably correct, sir."

"Just what are this weapon's full capabilities, Mr. La Forge?"

"I don't know, sir. I'll have to bring it down to engineering, have my tech boys look it over. I know this much ... from our initial investigation, it won't explode. It seems to have no power source." Then Geordi paused. Although he'd said nothing at the time, he knew that Wesley was still upset over what had happened earlier on the bridge. Wesley must certainly have felt that he had "lost face" with Picard. This might be a good time to remind Picard of not only Wesley's abilities, but also of the fact that, like any sixteen-year-old, he needed his ego stroked now and then.

The pause was brief, almost unnoticeable, and then Geordi continued, "I'd like to have Mr. Crusher in on this, if you don't mind, Captain."

"Mr. Crusher? Very well," said Picard with a shrug, "make it so."

Geordi looked in Riker's direction momentarily and then, with a feeling like stepping off the edge of a cliff, said, "I think it would be best if you informed him of this yourself, sir."

Picard stood and looked surprised. "Me? Whatever for?"

"Well, if it comes from anyone else, he'll think it's some sort of demotion. h.e.l.l think he's being punished."

"That's absurd," snapped Picard. "Why should he think that? It's a simple temporary rea.s.signment of duties."

Resolutely, Geordi folded his arms across his chest. "Teenagers get things in their heads. You know how it is."

Picard pulled himself up stiffly. "Are you implying, Mr. La Forge, that I was once a teenager?"

"Never, sir."