The Sky's The Limit Part 35

"It certainly is," Tropp agreed. "Or was, I should say. I was just finishing the autopsy."

"Have you determined the cause of death?" The creature Spot had killed could wait, as far as Worf was concerned.

"It was the power surge from the ruptured EPS conduit, just as Mister La Forge and yourself suggested. No mystery about it." He looked at the pet carrier Worf was holding. "Which is more than I can say for that."

Worf put the carrier on a biobed and opened it. "Spot brought this as a trophy."

Tropp peered at the creature with interest. "A most interesting specimen, Commander," he said. "Most interesting."

An Akira-cla.s.s ship had dropped into formation with the Enterprise a few minutes earlier. The conn officer looked up. "The Korolev is ready for tractoring, sir."

Picard gave a curt nod. "Make it so." He let out a short breath through his nose, and Worf understood completely. They both shared a sense of loss of face at having to have his ship towed to safety from such a short trip.

"Well," said Tropp, after Worf had returned to sickbay, "I have managed to conduct an a.n.a.lysis on the dead...creature."

"What species is it?" Worf demanded impatiently.

"Oh, I haven't the faintest idea." Worf gritted his teeth. "None of its DNA is on record in any medical database that I've been able to access."

"Then we are no closer to knowing what it was doing and how it got on board."

"Perhaps not, but I can tell you some interesting things about it. Two things, anyway. First, I can tell you what type of species it is, and it isn't a rodent or anything a.n.a.logous." Tropp brought up an image on a desk screen and turned it to face Worf. The screen showed the creature, its fur and flesh almost totally transparent so that networks of nerves and muscular structures were clearly delineated. "It's not, technically, a creature."

"It is inorganic?"

"No, no, it's organic, but it would be more truthful to call it part of a creature. Look at the layout of the muscle structure and you'll see quite obviously that it is intended to work in concert with other structures that are not present. Look at the terminations of several of these nerve plexus points." He indicated spots on the screen. "At first I thought they were part of its reproductive system, but then I saw that this thing has no discrete reproductive system and that some of these nerve highways actually go from one opening in the body to another, without connecting to any part of its central system. That can mean only that this creature is merely part of the actual creature."

Worf nodded slowly. "A gestalt." Many subcreatures forming one main being. True gestalts, as compared to parasitic or symbiotic relationships like the Trill, were rare but not unheard of. "But you do not know of which species..."

"There are only five true gestalt species in Starfleet Medical's records, and none of them fit this specimen." Tropp looked admiringly at the corpse. "It's quite fascinating: a sixth gestalt species to be added to the database. Beverly will be kicking herself that she didn't stay aboard a few days longer."

Worf nodded curtly. He was glad that Tropp had something to interest him. "And what is the second thing you've discovered?"

"I can tell you where it has been." Tropp tapped the screen, and an image of a molecule replaced the previous view. Chemical and medical notations flowed underneath. Worf didn't recognize more than a couple of words. "Some of these were still attached to hair follicles. They're molecules of particulate matter formed from chemical compounds in an atmosphere." Tropp smiled with the unmistakable satisfaction of a job well done, the sort of pleasure Worf understood well. "In this case, specifically the atmosphere of Karenzaa."

"I have never heard of that world."

"It's in the Delta Quadrant. Perhaps Admiral Janeway can shed some light on the matter."

Geordi's investigations had also gone well, Worf soon discovered, when both commanders met with the captain again. "There's good news and bad news," Geordi said. "The good news is that Davis was killed by an EPS failure; it was just bad luck that he happened to be there when it went out."

"And the bad news?" Picard asked.

"The bad news is the EPS junction failure was no accident. A refractive feedback loop had been programmed into it. That pretty much turned it into a randomly timed bomb. When enough charge had built up over a period of use...bang."

"Deliberate sabotage?" Picard was alert immediately. "To what purpose?"

"It's not a vital system...Maybe to test the saboteur's ability to do the job without detection. And he succeeded."

"Which means he will have been confident that he can sabotage more vital areas."

"Such as helm control," Worf said.

"Exactly."

Picard's lips thinned. "This is no accident. The loss of maneuverability and helm control was designed to crash us into Earth, but..." He shook his head sharply. "Whoever is responsible must have known we could be tractored out of the collision course."

"Perhaps he didn't think of it?" Geordi asked.

Worf shook his head. "Our opponent has great skill and intelligence. This plan is one of subtlety. He, or they, will have antic.i.p.ated our actions." He looked at Geordi. "If you were trying to destroy a ship that was being tractored, what would you do?"

Geordi sat deep in thought for a moment, then his eyes widened. "Siphon off kinetic energy from the tractor beams and feed it into the intermix chamber while the start-up process was ongoing. That could set up an unstable feedback loop and cause a misfire. Blow the intermix chamber to pieces; the antimatter would escape and take the rest of the ship with it. Thankfully there have been no malfunctions in that area, and engineering has been too busy. n.o.body could have done any harm in there without being noticed."

"How long would the process take, once started?" Picard asked.

"Ten, maybe fifteen minutes from siphoning the power to the engines exploding."

Worf looked at the main display of the Enterprise's systems on the wall. "Then perhaps they have not yet struck."

"They won't waste much more time."

Worf pointed to Deck 6. "I found the trunk here." Deck 8. "The door malfunctions were here." He pointed out the locations of a couple of other malfunctions, and then EPS junction 4014. "The events started in scattered areas throughout the ship, but their locations converged and have been following a line."

"Yes!" Geordi exclaimed. "And if you wanted to siphon tractor power from farther along that line, you'd do it from"-he stabbed a finger at the layout-"there!"

Picard nodded and looked at Worf. "a.s.semble your security team, Commander."

Worf grinned.

The room was almost pitch-black but for the soft pastel lights of power indicators. Worf closed his eyes, listening for movement and trying to feel any shift in the air. Three more security officers were in the room with him, and he could barely hear them. He hoped the intruder wouldn't notice them either, until it was too late.

He watched the door, which was invisible in the dark. The instant it was opened, he and his team would pounce. He was vaguely surprised that nothing had happened yet. Another few minutes and the tractor beams would be disengaged; the saboteur would have missed his chance.

He listened. Nothing.

He sniffed the air. Nothing.

He felt- There was a skittering sound, and another, and another. They didn't sound like footsteps, and they seemed to be coming from all around. Then came the strangest sound Worf had ever heard. It was like the sound of large hermit crabs being prized apart from the angry kittens they had been superglued to. Then something pa.s.sed between him and the lights on the control panels, and Worf shouted, "Lights!"

The computer responded immediately, filling the room with light. Worf and his team raised their phasers, pointing them at an intruder. Worf wondered how it had gotten in, as the door had not opened and there had been no transporter beam.

The intruder turned, and Worf had a quick impression of a large and bulky figure, taller than himself, with six bloated and segmented limbs. It gave a rasping hiss and raised itself up, spreading its two arms wide. The creature leaped at Worf, who instinctively adopted a blocking stance and prepared to counter its move. No blow came. Instead, the creature exploded around him.

For an instant Worf thought someone had hit it with a phaser on a high setting, but then there was skittering all around him. Creatures like the one Spot had killed were leaping through the air and diving for small vents around the floor. A phaser beam caught one, and it flopped to the ground. Worf batted another out of the air with the back of his hand, and another security guard stood on one. Those two were delayed for only a moment, then disappeared into the vents.

"Computer," Worf shouted, running out the door. His team were already following. "Erect a level-three force field around Bussard control." He paused at a turbolift and turned to one of his men. "Go to sickbay and have Doctor Tropp use the dead gestalt creature to tune some tricorders. We should be able to detect the others now that we have their cellular pattern." He stepped into the turbolift. "Deck 6." He knew just the help the team needed.

Spot prowled the crawl s.p.a.ces in Deck 16. The scent of the creature it had killed earlier was everywhere. This surprised Spot. Individual creatures, in Spot's experience, all had individual scents, even if they were of the same species. Here it was scenting multiple tracks of the same scent.

Spot hissed at the very thought. How many times would she have to kill the same prey? As if called by her thoughts, the creature she had already killed ran out of the darkness at her. Spot darted forward, claws digging in and fangs tasting it. This time the creature fought harder than before, and Spot narrowly avoided its bony claws.

The lower ceiling here favored the creature, as Spot couldn't jump, but she could twist around almost within her own skin.

Together they rolled around the crawl s.p.a.ce, Spot hissing a warning, and the creature eerily silent.

On the deck above, Worf saw the tricorder display change. "This creature is dead." Several others showed as being nearby, and he wished he could find a way to direct Spot to each.

The muted shriek of a phaser beam came from nearby, and he turned to see one of his men approach another motionless creature. "Is it dead?" Worf asked.

The security guard scanned it. "I don't think so, but it's definitely out of action." Worf nodded. So far Spot had killed two, and two more had been phase red. He wondered how many parts the creature was actually composed of.

Spot reappeared out of a duct. She did not carry a prize this time, but Worf's tricorder had shown him all he needed to know. He picked up the cat and carried it to a duct closer to engineering. His tricorder showed another creature within three meters of the vent. Sure enough, he heard hissing and snarling almost immediately.

Suddenly, one of the creatures burst out of a vent. Then another and another. Worf phasered one on heavy stun, his men doing likewise. He checked the tricorder again. No more creatures were showing.

He allowed himself to relax and lowered his phaser. "Spot. You may come out now." The cat did not return. He considered sticking a hand in the vent to try to grab Spot but then straightened. Spot was an effective predator, and she did have a tactical mind of sorts. She was a calculating hunter and an efficient killer who lived by her own code. He knew where that code would be taking her.

A force field shimmered in the air not just across the entrance to the brig's holding cell but against the walls and ceiling too. The creature that stood in the cell was much like the one Worf had seen in Bussard control, except it was now quite short. Shorter than the average human, certainly. At least two of its component creatures were dead.

"Who are you?" Picard asked. He stood with Worf. Tropp was nearby.

"We are Feledrin," it answered. "We were. We are less now."

"Who were you working for?"

"We don't remember."

Picard's expression showed what he thought of that, but Tropp cleared his throat. "Actually, that's probably true, Captain. The gestalt creature's intelligence center is spread throughout its component creatures, and several are dead now. It's almost certainly suffering from the equivalent of brain damage."

Clearly frustrated, Picard nodded. Worf said, "The Feledrin had smuggled itself aboard by stowing away in several different packages and items of luggage belonging to the new crew members. It was attempting to make it look like a series of minor bugs caused by the repairs would lead to the destruction of the Enterprise. Ensign Davis was killed when he saw it, or part of it."

"And we don't even know whom to repatriate it to." Picard sighed. "Very well, Mister Worf. It looks as though you-and Spot-have earned a shift off."

Worf retired to his quarters for the night. As he walked in, Spot approached cautiously and rubbed her neck and shoulders against his legs. Worf resisted the urge to shove her aside with his foot. Her attempts to show some alien kind of affection by trying to trip him were more irritating than he had expected.

When he sat in his chair made of black globes, Spot settled into his lap and purred while he scratched behind her ears-two warriors who had shared a victorious battle, now enjoying the silence.

Trust Yourself When

All Men Doubt You Michael Schuster & Steve Mollmann

Historian's note:

This tale is set in late 2379 (Old Calendar), during the epilogue of the feature film Star Trek Nemesis.

JEAN-LUC PICARD STARED AT THE PADD AND, SIGHING, finally checked it off. There. Virtually all his crew was gone now. He leaned back in his chair, turning to look out the window of his ready room.

The Enterprise had been ensconced in one of the San Francisco Fleet Yards' orbital drydocks for a week now. It was a homecoming of sorts; almost nine years ago, the first components of the starship had been a.s.sembled here. The journey home had been a slow one, but not unexpectedly so. One didn't relinquish all control over the ship's forward motion to a small Nova-cla.s.s starship like the Foundation without experiencing what Will had likened to being dragged across the beach by a tired tortoise. After the battle with Shinzon that had ended with Jean-Luc's decision to ram the enemy ship, the Enterprise had lost her warp capability and was in need of being towed home. The Foundation was equipped to provide such a service, and her captain was glad to help out.

Yes, he'd been glad to help the captain and the crew he credited with "saving Earth yet again," but that had just made Picard feel guilty. He had been totally inactive after he had slain Shinzon on the control deck of the Scimitar-it had taken Data to save the day by sending Picard to safety and detonating the Scimitar's thalaron matrix before it could release the deadly radiation within. The Enterprise had lost many crew members on that day, and Jean-Luc felt each loss deeply, but Data's was the deepest of all. For fifteen years he'd been able to look forward across the bridge and see the android's head, covered in its slicked-back hair, there in front of the viewscreen-and now that was gone, all because Jean-Luc had just stood there, holding the corpse of Shinzon in his arms.

Since their return to Sector 001, some minimal repairs had been carried out-Beverly had compared it to "stabilizing" a patient-but the real bulk of the work had yet to get under way. There were a lot of parts to be requisitioned, a lot of labor to arrive, and a lot of design work to be done. Until then, there wasn't much for anyone to do on the damaged hulk that was the Enterprise, and so Picard had elected to allow leave for anyone who had requested it-which seemed to be basically everyone. Between leave and transfers, the entire senior staff was gone: Will and Deanna were on their honeymoon on Pacifica (though they wouldn't be returning in any case, as they would be heading to the t.i.tan), Beverly was transferring to Starfleet Medical again, Geordi had requested some time on Earth to visit an old friend, Christine also was moving over to the t.i.tan, and Worf was visiting his parents in Minsk. Most of the rest of the crew had requested and been granted leave as well.

But Jean-Luc stayed with his ship. He had things to do. There were reports to fill out on what had happened on Romulus and in the Ba.s.sen Rift, there was a major structural repair to organize, there were personnel a.s.signments to sort and approve, there were...

There were a lot of things. But most of all, he just wanted some time alone. To think about what had happened. I wrecked my ship, he thought to himself. Purposefully rammed it straight into Shinzon's battle cruiser because I couldn't think of anything else to do.

Unfortunately, when he did think recently, they weren't the best of thoughts. The idea of organizing this repair, rebuilding the Enterprise, a.s.sembling another crew for her, taking her out on a new mission...somehow it held very little appeal for him. Not after what had happened. Maybe it was time to return to Labarre, to settle down, to put an end to a part of his life that he had previously thought integral to his happiness. He just wanted to stop for a while.

He'd thought these thoughts before, of course. When he'd been forced to abandon the Stargazer at Maxia Zeta, he'd deemed himself unfit for command before he'd even been summoned before the Starfleet court-martial. And when the EnterpriseD had crash-landed on Veridian III, he'd spent almost a year contemplating alternatives before finally committing to her successor. With the help of his friends, he had pulled through the self-doubt that had plagued him.

But now, he stood alone on a desolated and deserted Enterprise-E, with nothing to do but think.

Well, there was one thing he could do. Should do.

The open file sat before him, two words blazed in yellow. Dear Will. The cursor blinked at him, patiently awaiting further input, as it had been for fifteen minutes now, while Jean-Luc sat in his quarters, contemplatively sipping from a cup of hot tea.

It was a Starfleet tradition for captains whose executive officers had just been given captaincies of their own to send them a letter, offering congratulations and maybe a nugget or two of wisdom, and Jean-Luc had no intention of breaking that tradition now. He wanted to send the letter soon, so that it would be waiting for Will when he set foot on the t.i.tan. But what could he say to him? What sort of "wisdom" could he impart that he hadn't already over the many years they had served together?

The sad truth was that no one had ever written Jean-Luc such a letter. The circ.u.mstances under which he had become captain of the Stargazer had been both abrupt and unconventional, to say the least. No one had imparted to him any sort of great knowledge at the time that he could now pa.s.s on to Will. He didn't really know what kind of content normally went into these things, having never read one himself. He had just sort of heard of them, was familiar with the concept.

He was not feeling particularly wise at the moment, anyway.

But he needed to do this. If he didn't, he would be letting Will down. He felt that he had left enough people down recently. But what could he write? Tentatively, he began typing out the next few words: I am writing to offer my congratulations on your achieving command of one of Starfleet's best and newest vessels.

No. That sounded stiff and formal-this was not a letter to a man he had known for fifteen years. He needed something deeper, something personal. Something like...

With a start, Jean-Luc stood up from his desk and hurried over to one of the storage cabinets. He opened up the bottom drawer, revealing a number of personal items he had acquired over the years, many of them objects that had survived the crash of the EnterpriseD, including the Picard family's photo alb.u.m and-beneath it, at the bottom of the drawer-a very battered and old padd.

Of course, he hadn't needed to save the padd. The file on it could have been transferred to any other computer, but it was one of those things he had never gotten around to doing. So he had held on to the device all these years, and eventually it had reached the point where he didn't want to transfer its contents to somewhere else-an entire padd being devoted to just one file made that file special, in its own way.

Jean-Luc returned to his desk chair and tapped the padd on, reading what was displayed on its screen.

Dear Jean-Luc Picard, I am fully aware that in an organization as large as Starfleet it is impossible for all the officers of a rank to know each other, much less all those that are above and below them. Nevertheless, I feel that there is a certain bond between us, and it is that bond that made me sit down tonight and write this letter to you, a man I know only as a name on a personnel file.

It was a letter from Thomas Halloway, the man who had commanded the EnterpriseD for that brief span of time before Jean-Luc had taken over-not to mention, the man who had built her.

Jean-Luc had found the letter waiting for him when he had come aboard the EnterpriseD just before its first mission, the trip out to Farpoint Station on Deneb IV. In the a.s.sorted business of a.s.suming command, and then the excitement brought on by Q and the duplicitous Bandi, Jean-Luc hadn't had time to read the letter right off the bat. He'd finally gotten around to doing so once the Enterprise had taken her first steps on her mission of exploration into the Denebian galactic ma.s.s.

The letter explained why Halloway hadn't taken command of the EnterpriseD, as had been offered to him by Admiral Satie. Jean-Luc skimmed through the long doc.u.ment until he found the part that had stuck with him.