Star Trek: The Q Continuum (16 page)

Faal ignored him entirely, chasing after Geordi. “You can’t do this, La Forge,” he said, his wheezing voice no more than a whisper. “The barrier is bigger than some pointless military exercise. We can’t lose sight of that. The experiment is all that matters!”

But La Forge, determined to inspect the warp engine power transfer conduits, would not be distracted. “Reg,” he called out, exasperated, “if you could take care of this?”

I can’t let Mr. La Forge down,
Reg thought, taking Faal gently but firmly by the arm. “Please come along, Professor.” Part of him felt guilty about bullying a sick man; another part was greatly relieved that Faal wouldn’t be able to put up much resistance.

Physically, that is. The scientist’s vocal indignation showed no sign of abating. “Let go of me, you incompetent cretin! I insist on seeing Commander Riker.”

Barclay had no idea where Riker was. On the bridge, he assumed, coping with the latest ghastly emergency.
There you go again,
he chastised himself,
leaping to the worst possible conclusion.
But he couldn’t help it. The flashing red alert signals and blaring sirens ate away at his nerves like Tarcassian piranha. A dozen nightmarish scenarios, ranging from an uncontrolled plasma leak to a full-scale Q invasion, raced through his mind. He tried to dismiss his fears as irrational and unfounded, but with only partial success.
An angry Q could do anything,
he thought,
anything at all.
Still, he somehow managed to get the professor away from La Forge and into the turbolift.
Let me just get Faal stowed away safely. Then I can report my findings on the probe.
“Which deck are your quarters on?” he asked.

“Seven,” Faal said grudgingly, still visibly incensed. Unable to stand upright on his own, he had to lean back against the wall of the lift. Something wet and clotted gurgled in his lungs. Barclay tried not to stare at the silver hypospray Faal removed from his pocket.
It’s not contagious,
he kept reminding himself.
It’s not.

The turbolift came to a stop and the doors whooshed open, revealing an empty corridor leading to the ship’s deluxe guest quarters, the ones reserved for visiting admirals and ambassadors.
Nothing but the best for the winner of the Daystrom Prize,
Barclay thought, wondering how much larger the suite was than his own quarters on Level Eleven. “Here we are,” he announced, grateful that Faal had not raised more of a fuss once they left Engineering.
I’ll just drop him off, then hurry back to Mr. La Forge.
He still needed to tell the chief about the psionic energy the probe had picked up.

“Just give me a minute, Lieutenant,” Faal said. His hypospray hissed for an instant, and the debilitated scientist grabbed on to the handrail for support. His chest rose and fell slowly as he choked back a rasping cough. Barclay looked away so as not to embarrass the professor.

The next thing he knew a pair of hands shoved him out of the lift compartment into the hall. Surprised and befuddled, he spun around in time to see the doors sliding shut in front of his face. For one brief instant, he glimpsed Faal through the disappearing gap in the door. The Betazoid grinned maliciously at him. The doors came together and the lift was on its way.

Oh no!
he thought. He immediately called for another lift, which arrived seconds later, and he jumped inside.
I can’t believe I let him do that. I can’t even keep track of one sickly Betazoid.
He didn’t know how he was ever going to look Geordi La Forge in the eyes again.
Just when I thought I was really on to something, what with the probe and all, I have to go and do something like this!

“Destination?” the turbolift inquired when Barclay didn’t say anything at first. The prompt jogged his mind. Where could Professor Faal have run off to? Back to Engineering? Boy, was Chief La Forge going to be annoyed when Faal showed up to pester him again. “Engineering,” he blurted, and the lift began to descend.
Maybe I can still stop him before he gets to Mr. La Forge.

But, wait, he recalled. Hadn’t Faal kept demanding to see Commander Riker? Suddenly, he knew what the professor’s destination had to be.

The bridge.

“Stop. Cancel previous order. Take me to the bridge. Nonstop.”

Please let me get there before Faal can bother the commander too much.

“Fire phasers again,” Commander Riker ordered. “Take us up another notch, Lieutenant.”

“With pleasure, sir,” Leyoro said. A burst of high-intensity phaser beams leaped from the emitter arrays to sting the alien cloud-creatures enclosing the
Enterprise.
As before, the Calamarain reacted with a thunderous roar that caused the starship to rock like an old-fashioned sailing vessel adrift on a stormy sea.

The floor of the command area rolled beneath Riker’s feet as yet another tremor jarred the bridge, reminding him forcibly of the Great Alaskan Earthquake of 2349.
Back on Earth,
he thought,
that would have been at least a five-point-two.
Thank heavens the
Enterprise
-E had been constructed as soundly as it had; otherwise, he’d be expecting the roof to cave in at any moment.

His mind swiftly reviewed the situation. They had hurt the Calamarain with that last phaser burst, but not enough, apparently, to make the vaporous aliens let go of the ship; frothing, luminescent fog still filled the screen of the main viewer. So far, it seemed, all they had done was make the Calamarain even more angry.
That’s progress, I guess,
he thought, wondering briefly what Jean-Luc Picard would do in these circumstances before pushing that thought out of his mind. The captain was gone. Riker had to rely on his judgment and experience, as he had many times before. “Tactical status?” he inquired.

“Shields at forty-six percent,” Leyoro briefed him. “Phasers armed and ready. Quantum torpedoes locked and loaded.”

Riker acknowledged her report with a nod. He wasn’t sure what good the torpedoes would do against a living cloud of plasma, especially one located at such close quarters to the
Enterprise,
but it might be worth finding out. “Ensign Berglund,” he ordered the officer at the primary aft science station, “locate the area of maximum density within the Calamarain cloud formation.”

Ordinarily, he’d assign Data a task like that, but he didn’t want to divert the android’s concentration from his work with the Universal Translator. Sondra Berglund, a blond Canadian officer with a specialty in advanced stellar spectroscopy, could handle the job just as well with the sensors assigned to her science console.
If we’re going to target anywhere,
he decided,
we might as well aim for the highest concentration of Calamarain.

“Um, I’m afraid that would be us,” she reported after a few seconds. “The plasma is most dense around the
Enterprise
and diminishes in volume and intensity the farther the distance from the ship.”

That was no good then, Riker realized. He had a vivid mental image of hundreds, if not thousands, of gaseous Calamarain swarming over and around the Sovereign-class starship.
They’re ganging up on us, all right,
he thought,
and pounding on the walls.
There was no way he could detonate a quantum torpedo against the Calamarain while the ship remained at the heart of the cloud; they’d be caught within the blast-hazard radius. For all they knew, the matter-antimatter reaction set off by a standard torpedo could harm the
Enterprise
more than the Calamarain. He’d have to hold back on the torpedoes until he put some distance between the ship and its noncorporeal adversaries.

On the main viewer, riotous swells of ionized gas convulsed between the ship and open space. Riker didn’t remember the cloud looking anywhere near this stirred up the first time the
Enterprise
encountered the Calamarain several years ago. He still didn’t understand what they had done to agitate the amorphous entities. Q wasn’t even aboard anymore!

His temples throbbed in time with the thunder outside. His gaze darted over to Deanna, who looked like she was having an even harder time. Her eyes were shut, her face wan and drawn. He assumed she was still in touch with the Calamarains’ pain and anger, and it tore at his heart to see her under such strain. Between the tumult on the bridge and the damage they had inflicted back on their foes, Deanna was getting lambasted from both sides.

Hold on,
imzadi, he thought.
No matter what happens next, this can’t go on much longer.

Her lids flickered upward and she met his eyes. A thin smile lifted her lips. Riker knew that even if his actual words hadn’t gotten across to her, his message definitely had. There was a Klingon term, he recalled, for such an instance of wordless communication in the midst of battle, but what exactly was the word again?
Tova’dok.
That was it, he recalled. He and Deanna were sharing a moment of
Tova’dok.

Their private communion did not last long. With renewed ferocity, the unleashed power of the Calamarain slammed into the ship, causing the bridge to lurch to port. Behind him, at the engineering station, Ensign Schultz lost his balance and tumbled to the left, smacking his head into the archway over a turbolift entrance. Berglund hurried to assist him.

“Everyone okay back there?” Riker called out over the crashing thunder.

“I think so,” Schultz answered. Riker glanced back over his shoulder to see a nasty cut on the young man’s scalp. A trickle of blood leaked through his fingers as he held his hand to his head. Undaunted, Schultz headed back to his post. Riker admired his spirit, but saw no reason to risk the ensign unnecessarily.

“Report to sickbay, mister,” Riker ordered. “Berglund, take over at engineering.” The overhead lights dimmed momentarily, more evidence of the duress imposed on the ship by the Calamarain; Ensign Schultz wasn’t the only resource on the
Enterprise
that had been knocked out of commission.

“Shields at forty-one,” Leyoro updated him as Schultz took the turbolift from the bridge. Riker wished he could have sent someone with the wounded ensign to ensure that he got to sickbay, but he couldn’t spare anyone from the bridge while they remained besieged by the Calamarain.

“Understood,” he said. No warp engines. Minimal shields. And, so far, no significant damage to the Calamarain. Their situation was getting worse by the moment. “Data, how are you doing on that translator?”

Data looked up from his computations. “Significant headway has been made; in fact, I believe I have identified a specific wave pattern that translates to something close to an expression of pain.” His voice acquired a regretful tone. “Unfortunately, I estimate that I still require as much as one-point-two-zero hours before I can reliably guarantee actual communication with the Calamarain.”

That might not be good enough,
Riker thought.

Before he could open his mouth, though, he heard the turbolift whish open behind him. At first, he thought it might be Robert Schultz, stubbornly refusing to abandon his post, but then he heard the impassioned voice of Professor Faal. “What’s happening?” he asked frantically. “What are you doing?”

Damn,
Riker thought. This was the last thing he needed. Deanna looked distressed as well by the Betazoid scientist’s unexpected arrival. He peeked at Deanna, recalling her concerns about the doctor’s stability and motives. She raised one hand before her face, as if to fend off the disruptive emotions emanating from Faal.
No surprise there,
Riker thought. He imagined that the professor was throwing off plenty of negative feelings.

A moment later, the turbolift doors opened again, revealing an abashed Reg Barclay. “I’m s-sorry, Commander,” he stammered, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously, “but the professor insisted, sort of.” His eyes bulged and his jaw fell open as his gaze fell upon the frothing plasma storm upon the main viewer.

“Yes,” Faal seconded. His face was flushed, his wild brown eyes crazed with anxiety. “I have to talk to you, Commander. It’s more important than you can possibly realize.”

“Commander?” Leyoro asked, still determined to engage the enemy despite the lack of any tangible results. The nonstop reverberations of the Calamarain rolled over the bridge like a series of sonic booms. The red alert signals flashed like beacons in the night.

Riker decided to get the confrontation over with; Faal wasn’t going to like what he had to say, but perhaps he could be made to see reason. He rose from the captain’s chair to face the celebrated physicist. Faal’s body was trembling so hard that Riker feared for his health. The man’s breathing was shallow and rapid, and he seemed to be having trouble standing; Faal tottered unsteadily on shaky feet. Riker’s hand drifted over his combadge, ready to summon Dr. Crusher if necessary.

“I regret to inform you, Professor, that I’ve made the decision to abandon the experiment due to hostile activity on the part of the Calamarain.” He saw no reason to alarm the doctor by detailing the full particulars of their danger; instead, he reached out to brace up the ailing scientist. “I’m sorry, but that’s the only prudent choice under the circumstances.”

Faal batted Riker’s arm away. “You can’t do that!” he snapped. “It’s completely unacceptable. I won’t hear of it. The captain’s orders came straight from Starfleet Command.” A fit of coughing attacked Faal, bending him all the way over. Faal dosed himself with his ubiquitous hypospray, then staggered over to the empty chair Riker usually occupied and collapsed down onto it. “The barrier,” he gasped. “That’s all that matters.”

The floor beneath Riker’s boots tilted sharply, nearly knocking him off balance. Lightning flashed through the storming plasma cloud upon the main viewer, the glare of the thunderbolt so bright that it overloaded the safety filters on the screen and made him squint. “The Calamarain seem to disagree.”

“Then destroy them!” Faal urged from the chair, squinting at the control panel in front of him as if he were determined to launch a volley of photo torpedoes himself. Wet, mucous noises escaped from his lungs. “Disintegrate them totally. This is a Federation starship. You must be able to dispose of a pile of stinking gases!”