Strike Zone Part 7

"I should think not." Nevertheless, he stepped over to the wall and tapped a comm link panel. "Captain to Mr. Crusher. Report."

No answer.

It was astounding. Usually response to a page came almost instantaneously. "Captain to Mr. Crusher. Report."

At last, Wesley replied "Crusher here."

There was something in his voice. Something was distracting him. He sounded as if he were barely paying attention. Perhaps he hadn't even noticed the page at first. "Is there a problem, Mr. Crusher?"

"Problem?"

Picard frowned. What in the world was wrong with Wesley? Was he getting senile at the ripe old age of sixteen? "Yes, Mr. Crusher. A problem. A difficulty."

"A confusion," Data chimed in helpfully. "A mishap, a misfortune, a boondoggle, a-"

"Shut up, Data. Mr. Crusher, your a.s.sistance has been requested, and I am now ordering it."

The response Picard got was hardly what he had expected. For one thing, it was a woman's voice, husky and attractive. Picard knew that the woman who went with that voice was also attractive (although hardly husky). "This is Dr. Pulaski, Captain," she said.

Picard blinked in surprise. "Doctor, I would appreciate your not interrupting. I happen to be having a conversation with Mr. Crusher."

"I know, Captain. He's down here in sickbay with me."

Now that was unexpected. Picard had simply a.s.sumed that she had b.u.t.ted in on the comm link-a breech of etiquette, but then that would hardly dissuade a woman like Dr. Katherine Pulaski. "Is Wesley all right, Doctor?"

If Pulaski took notice of the fact that Picard had dropped the "Mr. Crusher" reference when he thought Wesley was ill, she made no mention of it. "No, he's quite all right. However ... " There was a hesitation, as if she was trying to figure out the best way to phrase it. "However, he's aiding me in a matter of some urgency. Can you do without him for a while?"

Picard's back stiffened, as it frequently did in these recent days of his getting acquainted with the formidable Dr. Pulaski. "The stars.h.i.+p Enterprise has done quite well for close to a century before Mr. Crusher came along, Doctor. We can certainly muddle through without him for a while longer, if you need him down there."

"Oh my," came the bemused reply. "Close to a century, you say? May I make note of the fact that this is the fifth model of the good s.h.i.+p Enterprise? And not only that, but it's my understanding that our Mr. Crusher was instrumental, on several occasions, in delaying the need for a sixth? Perhaps if Mr. Crusher had been born a generation earlier, we would still be at NCC-1701 without the 'D' suffix."

Picard winced.

"Are you through, Doctor?"

He could imagine her beautiful eyes (and, blast and d.a.m.n, why did her eyes have to be so beautiful?) sparkling with merriment. "Quite through, Captain."

"Fine. Keep Mr. Crusher with you as long as you need. We'll mu-we'll be fine without him. Picard out."

He snapped off the intercom in irritation. Then he turned to Riker and said, "Number One, kindly go down to sickbay and find out what the devil's going on down there. If any of my ensigns, acting or not, are going to be dwelling in Dr. Pulaski's realm I want to know specifics." He frowned to himself. "I should have asked her myself, but that woman can be so irritating at times. I'm not certain what in the world you see in her, Number One."

Riker grinned at that. He had served with Pulaski on an earlier s.h.i.+p a.s.signment and, through time, had become an enthusiastic fan of hers. But he knew that there was a period of adjustment to her style, and he secretly sympathized with what Picard was going through. Very secretly, however. "She grows on you, sir."

"Like a fungus," Picard muttered.

"Or a beard," Riker suggested.

Picard shot him a look but Riker had already forced a deadpan expression.

Picard's communicator beeped and he tapped his insignia. "Picard here."

"Captain," came Worf's low voice, in a tone indicating that the duty he found least interesting was pa.s.sing along messages, "we have a communique from Starfleet."

"I'll be right up," said Picard, and cut the connection. "Geordi, bring that thing down to engineering. But if you take it apart, make d.a.m.ned sure you can put it back together again."

Sounding slightly wounded, Geordi said "Of course, sir."

"Good. Mr. Riker, Mr. Data, with me. Mr. Crusher will have to wait."

They turned to leave and Picard was muttering something to himself. Riker heard enough s.n.a.t.c.hes to prompt him to say, "Beg pardon, sir?"

"I said," Picard admitted, "that your beloved Dr. Pulaski seems determined to challenge my authority."

"More like establis.h.i.+ng her own, sir."

The three officers entered the turbolift.

"Do you know," Picard said slowly, "what Nietzsche said about women?"

Everytime Data tried to tell a joke, he failed. Now was no exception. "No, but if you hum a few bars, I'll fake it on my harmonica."

Riker tilted forward, his forehead against the turbolift door. Picard closed his eyes in pain.

For Data, that was practically an ovation. Thus encouraged, he said with the same intensity that he would have announced a Romulan attack, "A man leaves his cat with his brother and goes off on vacation ... "

And Picard, who could have ordered him to stop, in a fit of masochism allowed him to continue.

If I can survive being trapped in a turbolift with Data trying to tell jokes, he reasoned, I can certainly survive anything Starfleet has to tell me.

Chapter Five.

SEATED IN THE conference lounge off the bridge, Picard, Riker, Data, Troi, and Worf stared at the holopic of Admiral Westerby with a collective combination of astonishment and annoyance.

"Admiral," Picard said slowly, "are you telling us that Starfleet knew of these apparent weapons advancements by the Kreel, and had not made it general knowledge?"

"What we knew, Captain," said Westerby with an emphasis on rank to give a not-so-subtle reminder as to who was in charge, "was nothing. Nothing except rumors, vague intelligence reports. If the Kreel had attacked Vulcan, for example, we would have known everything there was to know immediately. The Klingons, unfortunately, tend to be pretty tight-lipped whenever they run into difficulties. No offense intended, Lieutenant Worf."

Worf was silent for a moment, and Picard wondered just what was going through his mind.

"One cannot take offense," said Worf, "at the truth. Klingons, as a whole, do not like to discuss problems. A sign of weakness, we feel."

"Problems are one thing, Worf," said Picard, "but major attacks by foes bearing vastly improved weapons!"

Worf's gaze bored right through him. "I a.s.sure you, sir, I had no idea. I would have told you, had I known."

"Of course you would have, Worf," Picard said quickly. "I never meant to imply otherwise." He turned back to Westerby. "But now you want me to put my s.h.i.+p, my crew, directly in the middle of this ... this situation?"

"Precisely," said Westerby. "The Klingons and the Kreel have both come to realize that full-scale war is imminent. It's our belief the Kreel didn't bargain for that. We think they stumbled onto these weapons and are now over their head, and they're looking for a graceful way out. What they've agreed to is a full sharing among all parties of the weapons they've found."

"Balance of power," Data said. "All sides having the same weaponry, so that no one will wish to employ them since mutual destruction is a.s.sured."

"We know what balance of power is, Data," said Picard, who was still a bit irritated from the long and badly told joke Data had inflicted on them in the turbolift.

"And the agreement," continued Westerby, "is that both Klingon and Kreel diplomatic contingents will be transported aboard a Federation vessel to the site of the initial discovery."

"Site? What site?"

"Well," said Westerby, "our records show it as DQN 1196."

"That's in Klingon territory," Worf said.

"Or Kreel," replied Westerby. "It depends who you talk to. At this point, the Kreel have another name for it, which translates out roughly into 'h.e.l.lhole.' "

Picard nodded. "As near as we can tell, the netherworld might indeed be the source of these weapons."

"What's frightening is that we've only seen the ones they had the resources to figure out," said Westerby. "The Federation doesn't want to even consider the untapped potential of that planet. That's why they've decided that Starfleet has to maintain a major presence right in the midst of the situation. In fact, the request for the Enterprise, specifically, came straight from Taka Nagai's office."

The Enterprise officers looked at each other in surprise. "We are, of course, honored," said Picard. "Still, perhaps the Klingons and Kreel could each travel in their respective s.h.i.+ps, with the Enterprise as an escort."

Westerby was already shaking his head. "We consider it unwise to have a Klingon and Kreel s.h.i.+p in proximity to each other. The results could be ... unpleasant."

"Then perhaps we could transport one group while another stars.h.i.+p transports the other."

"We suggested that. Unfortunately, the Klingons and the Kreel want to keep an eye on each other."

"So we have to keep them close enough to watch each other, but far enough away so that they don't kill each other." Picard shook his head wearily. "Admiral, with all due respect, there must be another way."

"Perhaps there is," said Westerby evenly. "But this is the way we have chosen. Is there a problem with that, Captain Picard?"

Again that emphasis on rank. Making no effort to keep the annoyance out of his voice, Picard said, "No problem we cannot handle, Admiral."

"As I thought," said the admiral cheerfully. "You'll be picking up the Klingon contingent first, and then the Kreel group. Coordinates for your rendezvous will be forthcoming shortly. Starfleet out."

The holopic obediently vanished. As if prearranged, Riker and Troi slumped slightly with a "Whew" sound. Picard leaned forward, his fingers interlaced. "Well ... that's just marvelous," he said.

"Sir, I wish to protest for the record," Worf said with remarkable stiffness.

Picard looked at him bemusedly. "So noted. I'll be certain to file it right after my protest."

"Why are you so adverse to this mission, Captain?" Data asked. "Certainly shuttling races with disputes is hardly new for the Enterprise."

"It's the nature of the races, Data. Plus the nature of the disputes. Plus the civilians ... " Picard shook his head in dismay. "Civilians. To this day it's the one major policy decision Starfleet has made that rankles me. And I see you're shaking your head, Mr. Riker."

"We've disagreed on this before, Captain, and I think we'll continue to do so," said Riker. "Many people aboard the Enterprise are scientists, geologists, explorers who are doing the kind of work that can only be done aboard a stars.h.i.+p."

"Not to mention the spouses and children of Enterprise crew members," Troi added. "Part of the movement toward integrating families began when studies showed that long separations from their loved-ones was detrimental to the health of Starfleet personnel."

"My second-in-command and my counselor, of one mind once again, eh?" Picard said. Troi and Riker glanced at each other and quickly turned away, Troi maintaining her professional detachment, but Riker permitting a small smile. Picard continued, "But we keep coming back to one overwhelming problem. You, Mr. Riker, and you, Counselor Troi, and everyone in this room, has been through Starfleet Academy. We've had special, extensive training to handle all sorts of situations.

"Now when we encounter difficulties that can be handled by the bridge crew, all well and good. But Starfleet is thrusting us into an arrangement where a problem with lethal potential is going to be wandering the corridors of this s.h.i.+p. I'd like to confine the Klingons and Kreel to their quarters for the duration of the trip, but the Klingons are too proud and the Kreel too nasty. The last thing we want to do is take the members of a diplomatic mission and put them in a foul mood right at the beginning. But if difficulties start, I'm extremely concerned that all the civilians are going to find themselves caught in the middle of a crossfire." He conjured up images of children lying phaser-burned and dead or dying in the hallways while rampaging Klingons and Kreel carried on their race war, oblivious of the consequences. Not a pretty picture.

"What I resent," he said, "is that Starfleet has seen fit to take the Enterprise and turn her into a ... a ... "

"A tinderbox?" offered Data hopefully.

Picard considered that and nodded slowly. "As always, I'm impressed by your learning abilities, Mr. Data. Yes, indeed ... a tinderbox. And we have to keep the matchbook out of their hands."

"Absolutely," said Riker.

"I agree completely," said Worf.

"What's a matchbook?" said Data.

Wesley stood over the diagnostic bed looking down at the unmoving body of his friend. He watched the slow, steady rising and falling of Jaan's chest, and then glanced up at the monitoring board. He did not even look when Dr. Pulaski came up behind him. "He seems to be resting comfortably," he said.

"Really," she said. "Any recommendations, Doctor?" The words might have been sarcastic, but the tone was carefully neutral. It was as if she were testing him.

She tests everyone, he thought. Then he realized that that was an oversimplification. Katherine Pulaski didn't "test" people to see if she could catch them or see how much they knew. Rather, she seemed eternally interested in trying to see just how far humans were capable of bringing themselves, of what sorts of intuitive leaps in knowledge and logic they could make when challenged. An unselfish, altruistic point-of-view for her to have.

Also a d.a.m.ned irritating one.

All right then. Without removing his gaze from the monitor he said, "Fifty cc's of andromorphine."

His brisk prescription hung in the air before Pulaski seemed to pluck it out. Nearby stood a medic-aid who, naturally, was not acting upon Wesley's diagnosis. But Pulaski now said in her no-nonsense tone, "You heard him."

The dosage was quickly administered and, within moments, Wesley could imagine that his friend's breathing actually seemed to be less strained.

Then Jaan opened his soft, slanted dark eyes. They blurred for a second and then cleared and he smiled up. "Hi, Orange," he said weakly. "C'mon ... let's blow this mausoleum."

"I'm afraid," was Dr. Pulaski's stern order, "that you'll have to stay put for some time. At least twenty-four hours for observation."

Jaan's voice seemed to turn to honey. "Oooohh, now you don't have to keep me here that long, do you? Now of course you don't. I just had a little problem and certainly you don't have to-"

She leaned forward on the edge of the diagnostic table and placed a finger against his lips, stilling them. "You're not my first elf," she said. "So you can just forget 'the Knack.' I know about it, I'm ready for it, and that pretty much puts it out of commission. Correct?"

He sighed. "You're well-read."

Wesley looked from one to the other in befuddlement. "The Knack? What's the Knack? I don't understand."

"The Knack," said Dr. Pulaski, looking away from her patient, "is a little-doc.u.mented aspect of the Selelvian makeup. When they look at you with those marvelous dark eyes of theirs, they have a way of cajoling listeners into doing whatever they, the elves, want them to do. They say they have a knack for getting things done. However, if you're aware of it and"- she smiled-"you have a fairly strong sense of self, then you can manage to resist their ... suggestions?"

"A fair-enough a.s.sessment," replied Jaan, and he was smiling but there was a twinge of pain in there that he obviously was trying to screen out.