Star Trek: The Q Continuum (27 page)

Then, to his surprise and relief, he sensed his father approaching, feeling his presence in his mind only seconds before he heard his voice in the corridor outside. His father was very irate, Milo could tell, and seemed to be arguing with someone, speaking loudly enough to be heard through the closed steel door of the guest suite.
Now what?
he wondered.

“This is intolerable!” Lem Faal insisted as the door slid open. He was a slender, middle-aged man with receding brown hair, wearing a pale blue lab coat over a tan suit. “Starfleet Science will hear about this, I promise you that. I have colleagues on the Executive Council, including the head of the Daystrom Institute. You tell your Commander Riker that. He’ll be lucky to command a garbage scow after I’m through with him!”

Milo was amazed. Ever since Mom died, his father had been distant, distracted, and, okay, irritable sometimes, but Milo had never heard him go all Klingon at another adult like this. What could have happened to upset him like this? Looking beyond his father, he spotted a security officer standing outside the doorway, holding on to his father’s arm. Both men wore standard-issue gravity boots, and Milo wondered if the gravity had gone out all over the
Enterprise.
“I’m sorry, Professor,” the Earthman said, “but, for your own safety, the commander thinks it best that you remain in your quarters for the time being.” Milo sensed a degree of impatience within the officer, as if he had already explained his position several times before.

“But my work,” Faal protested as the officer firmly but gently guided him into the living quarters. Milo hopped off the couch and launched himself toward his father for a closer look at what was going on. “You have to let me go to Engineering. It’s vital that I complete the preparations for my experiment. All my research depends on it. My life’s work!”

Because of his illness, Faal looked much frailer than his years would suggest. His whole body trembled as he railed against the unfortunate guard. Nearing the doorway, Milo slowed his flight by bouncing back and forth between facing walls. He winced every time he heard his father wheeze; each breath squeaked out of his disease-ravaged lungs.

“Maybe later,” the officer hedged, although Milo could tell, as his father surely could, that it wasn’t going to happen. The guard let go of Faal’s arm and stepped back into the corridor. “There are extra boots in the emergency cupboards,” he said, nodding in Milo’s direction. “I’ll be out here if you need anything,” he said. “Computer, seal doorway. Security protocol gamma-one.”

“So I’m under house arrest, is that it?” Faal challenged him. He grabbed the edge of the door and tried to stop it from sliding shut. “You dim-witted Pakled clone, don’t you understand what is at stake? I’m on the verge of the greatest breakthrough since the beginning of warp travel, an evolutionary leap that will open up whole new horizons and possibilities for humanoids. And your idiotic Commander Riker is willing to sacrifice all that just because some quasi-intelligent gas cloud is making a fuss. It’s insane, don’t you see that?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the officer said once more, maintaining a neutral expression. “I have my orders.” Faal tried to keep the door open, but his enfeebled fingers were no match against the inexorable progress of the steel door. His hands fell away as the door slid shut, shielding the unfortunate officer from further scorn.

Gasping for breath, the scientist leaned against the closed doorway, his chest heaving. His fruitless tirade had obviously cost him dearly. His face was flushed. His large brown eyes were bloodshot. He ran his hand anxiously through his hair, leaving stringy brown tufts jutting out in many different directions. Milo could feel his father’s exhaustion radiating from him. Even with no gravity to fight against, it wore Milo out just watching him. “Are you all right, Dad?” he asked, even though they both knew he wasn’t. “Dad?”

In a telepathic society, there was no way Milo’s father could conceal his illness from his children, but he had never really spoken to them about it, either. Milo had been forced to ask the school computer about “Iverson’s disease” on his own. A lot of the medical terminology had been too advanced for him, but he had understood what “incurable” meant, not to mention “terminal.”

His father reached into the pocket of his lab coat and produced a loaded hypospray. With a shaky hand, he pressed the instrument against his shoulder. Milo heard a low hiss, then watched as his father’s breathing grew more regular, if not terribly stronger. None of this came as a surprise to the boy; he had asked the computer about “polyadrenaline,” too. He knew it only offered temporary relief from his father’s symptoms.

Sometimes he wished his father had died in that accident instead of his mother, especially since Dad was dying anyway. This private thought, kept carefully locked away where no one could hear, always brought a pang of guilt, but it was too strong to be denied entirely.
It’s just so unfair! Mom could have lived for years….

At the moment, though, he was simply glad to have his father back at all. “Where have you been, Dad?” he asked. He grabbed the doorframe and pulled himself downward until his feet were once more planted on the carpet. “The ship keeps getting knocked around and everything started floating and Kinya won’t stop crying and I hear the ship is being attacked by aliens and we might get blown to pieces. Do you know what the aliens want? Did anyone tell you what’s going on?”

“What’s that?” his father replied, noticing Milo for the first time. He breathed in deeply, the air whistling in and out of his congested chest, and steadied himself.

“What are you talking about?”

“The aliens!” Milo repeated. Fortunately, their father’s arrival had momentarily silenced the toddler, who teetered on tiny legs before lifting off from the floor entirely. “I know it’s not polite to listen in on the humans’ thoughts, but the alarms were going off and the floor kept rocking and I could hear explosions or whatever going off outside and you were nowhere around and I just had to know what was happening. Have you seen the battle, Dad? Is Captain Picard winning?”

“Picard is gone,” Faal said brusquely. A plush toy kitten drifted in front of his face and he irritably batted it away. “Some insignificant moron named Riker is in charge now, someone with no understanding or respect for the importance of my work.” He seemed to be talking to himself more than to Milo. “How dare he try to stop me like this! He’s nothing more than a footnote in history. A flea. A speck.”

This was not the kind of reassurance Milo hoped for and needed from his father.
He’s worried more about his stupid experiment than us,
he realized,
same as always.
He tried to remember that his father was very sick, that he wasn’t himself these days, but he couldn’t help feeling resentful again. “What happened to the captain?” he asked anxiously. “Did the aliens kill him?”

“Please,” his father said impatiently, dismissing Milo’s questions with a wave of his hand before creeping slowly toward his own bedroom. “I can’t deal with this right now,” he muttered. “I need to think. There has to be something I can do, some way I can convince them. My work is too important.
Everything
depends on it….”

Milo stared at this father’s back in disbelief. He didn’t even try to conceal his shock and sense of betrayal. How could Father just ignore him at a time like this?
Never mind me,
he thought,
what about my sister?
He looked over his shoulder at Kinya, who was watching her father’s departure with wide, confused eyes. “Daddy?” she asked plaintively.

Lightning flashed right outside the living room, followed by a boom that sounded like it was coming from the very walls of the guest suite. The overhead lights flickered briefly, and Milo saw the forcefield reinforcing the window sparkle on and off like a toy Borg shield whose batteries were running low. The momentary darkness panicked the toddler. Tears streaming from her eyes and trailing behind her like the tail of a comet, Kinya bounced after her father, arms outstretched and beseeching.
I know how she feels,
Milo thought, breathing a sigh of relief as Faal grudgingly plucked the tearful girl from the air. “About time,” Milo murmured, not caring whether his father heard him or not.

But instead of clasping Kinya to his chest, the scientist kept the whimpering child at arm’s length as he handed Kinya over to Milo, who was momentarily surprised by how weightless she felt. “By the Chalice,” his father wheezed in an exasperated tone, “can’t you handle this?” The model
Enterprise
cruised past his head, provoking a disgusted scowl. “And do something about these blasted toys. This is ridiculous.” He glanced over Milo at the tempest beyond the transparent window. “They’re just clouds. How can clouds ruin all my plans?” he mumbled to himself before disappearing into his private bedchamber. An interior doorway slid shut, cutting him off from his children

The total absence of gravity did nothing to diminish the anger and disillusionment that crashed down on Milo in the wake of his father’s retreat. Without warning, he found himself stuck with a semi-hysterical sibling and a murderous rage he could scarcely contain.
No,
he thought emphatically.
You can’t do this. I won’t let you.

Summoning up as much psychic energy as he could muster, he willed his thoughts through the closed door and straight into his father’s skull.
Help us, please,
he demanded, determined to break through the man’s detachment.
You can’t ignore us anymore.

For one brief instant, Milo sensed a tremor of remorse and regret within Lem Faal’s mind; then, so quickly that it was over even before Milo realized what had happened, an overpowering burst of psychic force shoved him roughly out of his father’s consciousness. Mental walls, more impervious than the duranium door sealing Faal’s bedroom, thudded into place between Milo and his father, shutting him out completely.

Unable to comprehend what had just occurred, Kinya blubbered against her brother’s chest while, biting down on his lower lip, Milo fought back tears of his own.
I hate you,
he thought at his father, heedless of who else might hear him.
I don’t care if you’re dying, I hate you forever.

On the bridge, six levels away, Deanna Troi felt a sudden chill, and an unaccountable certainty that something very precious had just broken beyond repair.

Still looking slightly green, Lieutenant Barclay nevertheless stood by his post at the science station. His long face pale and clammy, he awkwardly clambered into the magnetic boots he found waiting there. Judging from his miserable expression, the only good thing about the total absence of gravity upon the bridge was that it couldn’t possibly make him any sicker.

Riker barely noticed Barclay’s distress, his attention consumed by the daring but risky stratagem that had just presented itself to his imagination. “Mr. Data,” he asked urgently, “if we did enter the galactic barrier, what are the odds the Calamarain would follow us?”

“Will!” Deanna whispered to him, alarmed. “Surely you’re not thinking…” Her words trailed off as she spotted the resolute look on Riker’s face and the daredevil gleam in his eyes. “Are you sure this is wise?”

Maybe not wise, but necessary, he thought. The Calamarain were literally shaking the
Enterprise
apart; the failure of the gravity generators was only the latest symptom of the beating they had been taking ever since the cloud-creatures first attacked. Even if Data managed to invent some ingenious new way of fighting back against the Calamarain, they would never be able to implement it without some sort of respite. At that very moment, an ear-shattering crash of thunder buffeted the ship, tossing the bridge from side to side with whiplash intensity. Duranium flooring buckled and a fountain of white-hot sparks erupted only a few centimeters from Riker’s boots. Feeling the heat upon his legs, he drew back his feet instinctively even as a security officer, Caitlin Plummer, hurried to douse the blaze with a handheld extinguisher. Startled cries and exclamations reached Riker’s ears as similar fires broke out around the bridge. With only one foot securely embedded in his gravity boots, Barclay hopped backward as his science console spewed a cascade of orange and golden sparks. His shoulder bumped into Lieutenant Leyoro, who drove him away with a fierce stare that seemed to frighten him even more than the flames. “E-excuse me,” he stammered. “I’ll just stand over here if you don’t mind….”

Despite the tumult, Data promptly responded to Riker’s query. “Without a better understanding of the Calamarain’s psychology, I cannot accurately predict their behavior should we penetrate the barrier.”

Of course,
Riker reprimanded himself,
I should have guessed as much.
“What about us? How long could we last in there?”

Data replied so calmly that Riker would have bet a stack of gold-pressed latinum that the android had deactivated his emotion chip for the duration of the crisis. “With our shields already failing, I cannot guarantee that the ship would survive at all once we passed beyond the event horizon of the barrier. Furthermore, even if the
Enterprise
withstood the physical pressures of the barrier, the overwhelming psychic energies at work within it would surely pose a hazard to the entire crew.”

“What about Professor Faal’s plan?” he asked, grasping at straws. “Can we try opening up an artificial wormhole through the barrier, maybe use that as an escape route?” It would be ironic, Riker thought, if Faal’s experiment, the very thing that had ignited this crisis, proved to be their ultimate salvation. Still, he was more than willing to let Faal have the last laugh if it meant preserving the
Enterprise.
Lord knows he didn’t have any better ideas.

Data dashed his hopes, meager as they were. “The professor’s theory and technology remain untested,” he reminded Riker. “Furthermore, to initiate the wormhole it would be necessary to launch the modified torpedo containing the professor’s magneton pulse emitter into the barrier, but there is a ninety-eight-point-six-four percent probability that the Calamarain would destroy any torpedo we launch before it could reach the barrier.” Data cocked his head as he gave the matter further thought. “In any event, even if we could successfully implement the experiment, there is no logical reason why the Calamarain could not simply follow the
Enterprise
through the wormhole.”