The Sky's The Limit Part 32

The quarantine shield and blast doors held firm, frustrating the scavenger's every attempt to use his gun to burrow through the wall. Clearly, the Tellarite was intent upon finishing the job of covering his crime by waiting out the witnesses left inside and eliminating them when they came out.

Riker adjusted his combadge to silence the normal chirp activation sound and contacted Beverly. "Doctor," he whispered, "I want you to disengage the quarantine protocols and open that door on my mark. Stay out of sight as best you can until I've engaged him." Riker took one last look at the Tellarite, the distance he needed to cover, and the sealed facility. On a good day, he could cover the distance pretty quickly, but this wasn't a good day. The bushes he'd used for cover ended at the edge of the facility and would provide him with no more protection. Still, he resolved himself to his plan and gripped the branch tighter. He tried to find the Tellarite's pacing rhythm, to have Beverly open the door when the scavenger was looking away. "Mark."

The quarantine doors opened with a grinding screech and the Tellarite turned to see what had happened. While the alien was looking at the opening doorway, Riker broke into a dead run. When he was ten meters from the Tellarite, Riker began his diversionary tactics by shouting his favorite curse at the piglike scavenger. Let's see your universal translator handle that!

The Tellarite turned and started to point his gun at the onrushing human, but Riker was already upon him. Riker swung the branch at his enemy's head, but the Tellarite moved quickly and brought up his cargo gun to block the branch's path. Still, the force of Riker's blow knocked the cargo gun out of the alien's hands and drove him backward. Gravity and the Tellarite's backpack did the rest, and he fell onto the ground.

Riker charged, c.o.c.king his arms back by his head so that he could swing the branch full force. The Tellarite kicked upward with his left leg, aiming his blow at the large hole in Riker's chest. Riker twisted his body, moving his wound away from the kick, but the Tellarite's hooflike foot caught Riker on the right arm. He cried out in pain and dropped the branch. He could see the alien trying to retrieve his cargo gun by pulling on the wire that connected it to the backpack, and Riker knew he had to act quickly. Almost by instinct, he dived on top of the Tellarite, letting every iota of frustration pour out of him and into his fists.

Fueled by his own anger, Riker pummeled the scavenger over and over. He wasn't sure how much his murderer's natural padding was protecting him, so he kept pounding away. Riker lost himself in the moment. He continued to punch, kick, and elbow the Tellarite with all of his heart...if he had still had one. The Tellarite blocked several of Riker's blows, even landed a few of his own, but the human didn't let up. The scavenger still wore his cargo gun and Riker had to keep the Tellarite's attention directed at him and away from Beverly as she ran to the shuttlecraft.

This is for taking me from Deanna! Riker thought and rained more blows on the scavenger. You're not going to beat me! You're not going to win!

And just then, as if sensing Riker's hubris, the indicator light on the Fabrini Lifesaver went dark.

Searing hot pain exploded in Riker's chest. He gasped in agony and the Tellarite took advantage of the moment to kick Riker off of him.

The scavenger got to his feet. Riker was expecting him to say something, some sort of confident boast or explanation of how he couldn't allow Riker to compromise his salvage operation. The Tellarite, though, much like Riker, was a creature of few words. He said nothing. Instead, he merely reclaimed the cargo gun that dangled from his backpack and pointed it at Riker once again.

A rumble filled Riker's ears. His world was starting to go dark. The Tellarite smiled a snaggletoothed grin when Riker noticed, just over the gunman's shoulder, a flash of blue and red. It was Beverly. She hadn't gone to the shuttle. She was right behind the Tellarite.

Riker's last thought was, Dammit, Beverly, I told you to run!

Then all was black.

Riker opened his eyes and saw the ceiling of the Enterprise's sickbay. He'd seen it a number of times before, and it was comfortably familiar. He squinted at the light and counted the ceiling tiles in an effort to guess which diagnostic bed he was in. Number three, he thought.

Then he realized that he was thirsty.

Riker felt a pressure on his hand, and he looked at it to find another hand squeezing it. Riker knew whose hand it would be.

Tears were rolling down Deanna Troi's cheek. Riker looked up at his imzadi's face and thought, Either I'm not dead or heaven is going to be a pretty good place.

"Sorry," Riker rasped, returning her squeeze. The warmth of Deanna's hand in his own told him he was, indeed, alive. "You're going to have to go through with the wedding anyway."

Deanna started to sob harder and kissed him. Her tears fell upon his face.

"What happened?" he asked, noticing that his voice was husky and his throat hurt as much as it had when his tonsils were removed.

Beverly walked into Riker's field of vision. He was pretty sure she had always been there but had stayed back to give Deanna her moment. "How are you feeling, Will?"

"Like h.e.l.l."

"Believe it or not, that's a good sign."

"Don't take this as a complaint, but why aren't I dead?"

"Because I am a very good doctor and a very quick study."

Beverly told Riker how she had used his distraction to sneak up on the Tellarite and inject him with a neuroparalyzer from her hypospray. She got them all onto the shuttle and flew it back into open s.p.a.ce. Once she was clear of the planet's interference, she contacted the Enterprise and had them beamed directly into sickbay.

The Lifesaver was almost out of power so had gone into an energy-saver mode. It kept Riker preserved but not animated. Data and Geordi figured out how to keep it powered and even stabilized the cargo gun's transporter buffer while Crusher and her medical staff attacked the Fabrini database. After two days' research, they managed to reimplant his heart and missing tissue, and stabilize him.

"Two days?" Riker thought aloud. "And the Tellarite?"

"We had to give Worf something to do." Beverly smiled. "You know, you're quite the hero. Our scavenger's name is Sakal and he's wanted all over the quadrant. Starfleet already has extradition pet.i.tions from seven different systems. But until the JAG corps sorts it all out, he's in our brig." Then Beverly's smile broadened until her face could barely contain it. "Recovering."

"So I'm going to be okay?"

"Given a little time, a little Regen, and a lot of rest, yes. I've put Deanna in charge of supervising your recovery." Deanna looked at Crusher for a moment. "I think I'll leave you two alone now."

Once Crusher had left sickbay, Deanna turned to Riker. "Don't you ever do that to me again."

"I'll try my best."

Deanna composed herself. She let go of his hand, straightened, and stood almost formally at his side. Her smile disappeared and Riker felt a wave of confusion and anger from the connection they shared. Deanna pulled a tricorder off her belt. Riker's tricorder. "Now, would you tell me what this is?" She flipped open the device to display the recording Riker had made, a solid minute of Riker, smiling and silent. "This was your last message to me?"

"Pretty much."

Deanna furrowed her brow.

"Deanna... imzadi....I tried over and over to record you a message. Something weighty...important. h.e.l.l, something worthy of you. It was going to be the last thing I'd ever say to you and I wanted it to be memorable, but memorable in the right way." With an effort, Riker reached out and placed his hand atop Dean-na's, closing the tricorder's display.

"I couldn't do it. I tried and tried. But nothing sounded right. Then I realized why. Those last messages, they're for people who've held back." Riker's throat was getting drier, the pain more severe, but he continued. "I spent years denying how I felt. When we finally got back together, I stopped holding back. There hasn't been a day since then when I haven't given you, told you, and shown you exactly how much I love you."

Riker held Deanna's gaze. "You know I love you, right?"

"Yes."

"And you know that I won't let any force in the universe get between us again? Not without one h.e.l.l of a fight."

"Yes."

"Then what was there left to say?"

Deanna leaned in and kissed him tenderly. She hugged him as much as she could without disturbing his recovering chest and whispered, "Well, you'd better think of something. You still have to write your vows."

On the Spot David A. McIntee

Historian's note:

This tale is set during the epilogue of the feature film Star Trek Nemesis, during the weeks the Enterprise was under repair in orbit of Earth.

DAVID MCINTEE.

David A. McIntee has written a dozen novels based on the British TV series Doctor Who, as well as ones based on s.p.a.ce: 1999 and Final Destination. He has also written various audio scripts, several nonfiction books on subjects such as the Aliens and Predator franchises, and Quaterma.s.s. He has also written for the Star Trek Communicator, SFX, Dreamwatch, and the UK's official Star Trek Magazine. His most recent tie-in work has been writing Jason and the Argonauts: The Kingdom of Hades, the official sequel to Ray Harryhausen's movie, for Blue Water comics.

When not writing books, he studies martial arts, explores historical sites, builds models, researches Fortean subjects, teaches stagefighting workshops, and collects SF weaponry.

Dave is married to Amba.s.sador Mollari and lives in Yorkshire with B'Elanna, Seven of Nine, Cannonball, and a Stripey Git.

Captain's log, Stardate 56934.1 Repairs to the Enterprise continue as we prepare for our next a.s.signment, but the crew, I fear, will never completely heal from the damage inflicted by Shinzon and his Scimitar. Commander Data, and so many others, will be greatly missed. As indeed will Commander-correction, Captain Riker and Counselor Troi, and also Doctor Crusher. So far the crew rotation is going smoothly, both in the departure of those leaving for other posts and the new arrivals.

IT HAD BEEN CONSTRAINED FOR TOO LONG. IT DIDN'T MIND losing track of time while it had been cooped up and not knowing whether it had been imprisoned for hours or for days. Nor did it mind the darkness. It hated the physical sensations of the walls hemming it in.

Frustration built up like charge in a battery. It tried to calm down and put its concerns aside. It reminded itself that there were others, somewhere, in just the same situation. It knew that it was not alone, and that helped a great deal.

Best of all, it knew it would soon be free.

Lieutenant Commander Worf stood in the control booth overlooking the Enterprise's shuttlebay and watched an angular cargo shuttle settle into place on the deck. He checked a padd that he held; this would be the delivery of new transporter phase coils. Phase coils could not easily be transported themselves without risking their delicate balance, and in any case the Enterprise's one working transporter room was being prioritized for personnel movement rather than cargo.

A few uniformed figures emerged and began to unload crates from the shuttle. Things seemed to be going efficiently enough, but Worf still felt uneasy. The sleek form of the Sovereign-cla.s.s U.S.S. Enterprise had been built for speed and grace, but now, in the embrace of an orbiting drydock, she felt weary and vulnerable. Once the ship and her crew were free of this mechanical nurse-maid's influence, Worf would know he was back where he belonged. He would feel better then.

As Worf made his way toward the bridge, he pa.s.sed several technicians working on the innards of the power distribution systems. Having to pause or step aside irritated him, but he said nothing. It was just another symptom of the strangeness of being tethered to a drydock. There was something ironic in so many more corridors than usual being obstructed, when the crew complement on board was a shade over half the normal strength.

He took a turbolift to the bridge and triggered the chime at the ready room door. "Come," the captain's voice answered almost immediately.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard looked up from a screen as Worf entered. Picard looked a little tired but was fully alert. His professionalism was the best Worf had ever seen in a human; he bore difficult times with equanimity, as a warrior should. There was no doubt that times had been difficult lately. The triumph over the Reman pretender, Shinzon, and his warship Scimitar had been soured by the loss of many comrades, including Lieutenant Commander Data. Having the Enterprise towed home like a barge had been the final insult.

Picard bore the shame well, but Worf could see that he felt it. He could see it in Picard because it was an att.i.tude they both shared.

"Captain," Worf began, proffering the padd, "the final supply delivery from Station McKinley has arrived on schedule. All new and replacement hardware has either been installed or is on board ready to be installed."

Picard nodded. "Good. What about structural repairs?"

"All structural repairs are progressing ahead of schedule. Engineering reports we will be ready to conduct maneuvering tests later today."

"That is good news, Mister Worf." Picard gave a very genuine smile. "It feels good to be standing aboard a functioning Enterprise again, doesn't it?"

Worf allowed himself a smaller, answering, smile. "It does, sir."

"I believe you're off duty now, is that correct?"

"It is." Worf paused, then decided that he had to bring up an issue that he had known would come. "Sir..."

"Yes?"

"About Commander Data's effects..."

"I am not a cat person," Worf had insisted.

"It looks like you are now," Geordi La Forge had told him. Worf and La Forge had taken care of the inventory of Data's quarters after his death. La Forge had been the android's best friend, and Worf had felt that a.s.sisting was the best way to honor his fallen shipmate.

Some items had been bequeathed to Data's comrades, while others would be returned to Starfleet. Still others, including the prototype android designated B-4, had been sent to Bruce Maddox of Starfleet's artificial intelligence division, since Data's android nature was of interest to them. Pieces of equipment that weren't personal possessions were rea.s.signed to where they might be needed. In their sorting through Data's effects, the pair had unexpectedly come across something that didn't fit into any of those categories.

More accurately, it had leaped into Worf's arms and begun to purr. La Forge had immediately expressed guilt that he had forgotten all about the cat. Worf just wanted to drop it to the floor before it made him sneeze. He had resisted the urge; the animal was an inconvenience but had earned no harm from him.

Now that he had a moment, Worf decided it was time to bring the matter up. Spot was as much a part of Data's belongings as anything else and ought to be dealt with as appropriately. "Has a new home been found for Data's cat?" Worf asked Picard.

Picard tilted an eyebrow. "I'm afraid not. With the crew at half strength, there are fewer options available." He frowned. "Where is the cat now?"

"In a carrier in my quarters. I would like it to be moved to a more appropriate location as soon as possible. Perhaps-"

"Mister Worf, it would not be my ideal first choice to put you on the-" Picard hesitated, then bowed to the inevitable with a faint ironic smile. "On the spot like this." Worf said nothing; he had long since become used to human speech patterns making these ironic connections, whether consciously or otherwise. "I'm afraid that, for the moment, you're rather stuck with the cat."

Worf shifted uncomfortably. "Captain, I am not a cat person. And my duties are increasing as the repairs progress."

"I see.... Do you feel...burdened by your duties?"

"No," Worf snapped immediately. "The increase in workload is...challenging."

"I think the phrase anyone else would use is 'thankless hard work,' " Picard said. He rose, straightening his uniform. "It would appear to me that looking after Spot is a minor addition to your duties. Neither thankless nor, I should think, hard work."

"Yes, sir," Worf said reluctantly. "But it is not a task that appeals."

"And what exactly do good Klingons-and good Starfleet officers-do when they receive an...unappealing duty?"

"The honorable thing."

Picard nodded, and Worf could see he was amused. Worf didn't mind; Picard had earned the right, many times over. "Then it would appear that the honorable thing to do would be to go down to sickbay and get inoculated against feline allergens."

After Worf had left the ready room, Picard closed his eyes for a moment and allowed himself a small smile. There was always something new in commanding a starship-some unknown or forgotten fact, usually a small one. The devil was in the details, his father used to say. A captain could have planned out all kinds of strategies and missions, he might know all about navigation and the mechanics of warp travel, but there would always be those tiny details which came as a surprise. Such as having to find a home for a cat.

Worf would find this out as he went along. With no XO currently aboard, Worf was doing an admirable job holding together all those small details. Someday, Picard thought, Worf would make an excellent first officer, just as Will Riker would make an excellent captain for the U.S.S. t.i.tan, when he and Deanna returned from their honeymoon.

He returned to his screen, running an eye over new personnel files. With repairs nearing completion, new crew members were arriving all the time and others leaving.

Sickbay wasn't busy. The amount of work that had been taking place on the ship over the past few weeks had afforded the opportunity for a wide variety of industrial accidents, but there were far larger and better-equipped hospitals on the planet below, so the Enterprise's sickbay wasn't being used for more than routine shipboard physicals and minor ailments.

Worf had hoped he would see Beverley Crusher and wish her success in her new career at Starfleet Medical. She would be a good leader for any medical team or organization, he thought. When he arrived at sickbay, he found only Doctor Tropp and a human nurse tending some growth cultures in some kind of incubator.

"What can I do for you, Worf?" Tropp asked cheerily. He was a Den.o.bulan, and Worf found his enthusiasm somewhat wearing.

"Captain Picard has"-he wanted to say "ordered," but that wouldn't be right-"required me to seek an inoculation for a task."

Tropp brandished a hypospray. "A shot, eh? What sort of inoculation? Rigelian fever? Varnak's disease? Orion plague?"

"Allergens," Worf said reluctantly.

"Allergens? I thought that indomitable Klingon physique was resistant to most types of allergy."