Strike Zone Part 2

Once it had stopped, the bridge was silent for a long moment as they all looked to the commander.

The commander, in turn, looked to the screen. There was no sign of the planet now ... no, wait. There it was, a speck so small as to be almost undetectable. That was how far away they'd been hurled.

"Helm," he said slowly. "Bring us to within firing distance. Weapons, stand ready. Lock on to life readings and open fire. Tron," he added, turning, "shouldn't you be at your post?"- an unspoken admission that perhaps Tron had been out of his league on the planet surface.

Tension evaporated from Tron's body. "As you wish, commander," he said.

The Klingons moved with deliberate caution, wanting to get to just within the range where they could cut loose at the upstart Kreel who had treated them with such indignity.

There was, however, one thing that they had not allowed for. Perhaps it was because they felt that, now that they were on guard, they would be better prepared. Perhaps it was their firm belief that such an aberration could never happen twice.

Whatever the reason, it simply never occurred to them that the weapon on the ground might have greater range than they did. And when the ground fire cut loose again, it was clear that what had come before was merely a warning shot.

A beam of pure energy lanced upward, cutting through their s.h.i.+elds as if they were nonexistent. It sliced across the left warp nacelle, blowing it apart. And now there were indeed Klingon death screams as Klingons were incinerated instantly, or ripped apart by the power of the blast, or sucked completely out of the s.h.i.+p and hurled into the pitiless vacuum of s.p.a.ce where they all would die instantly.

On the bridge of the crippled s.h.i.+p, the commander never flinched. Death held no fear for him. Now, though, surviving meant more than simply avoiding death. He had to warn the Klingon Empire what was happening: Had to warn them that the balance of power had s.h.i.+fted dangerously, had suddenly been skewed toward an immature race with a century's worth of grievances and an itchy trigger finger.

"Get us out of here," he said.

"Warp drive severely damaged, sir. Navigational console is ... "

"Get us out of here," he repeated, "even if you have to go out and push."

They got out of there.

Chapter One.

WESLEY CRUSHER LISTENED carefully, trying to screen out everything, including the sound of his own soft breathing.

He was crouching against a tree, phaser in hand, examining every bush for where the potential danger lay. A gentle breeze rustled the plantlife around ...

A breeze? Or was it ... ?

He quickly swung his phaser around, aiming at one particular bush that appeared to be moving more than it should. He squeezed off a quick shot and waited, prayed, for an unconscious body to fall out of it.

Nothing happened. The bush continued to sway serenely. No one obediently tumbled out, insensate.

Wesley's mouth twitched in annoyance. He flicked away a fly buzzing ceaselessly around his face.

Then he sensed, rather than felt, something crawling across his boot. He looked down, and an ugly pincered bug the size of his fist was sitting there, apparently sizing up his big toe as a potential snack.

Wesley jumped back, making a sound of disgust and shaking the thing off his foot.

And at that moment a phaser blast lanced across where his head had been only an instant before, striking the tree and knocking off a piece of its bark.

Wesley hit the ground, landing on his elbow in just the right way to send a ribbon of numbing pain spiraling through his arm.

"I hate this," he muttered, even as he flung himself through a row of bushes that seemed to provide comparative safety.

Safety, however, it hardly was, for the bushes lined a sudden and rather abrupt drop-off. Wesley had no time to react as he rolled down the embankment, sending dirt and small rocks flying as he went. "I hate this I hate this I hate this", he kept saying, like a meditative chant, as he grabbed at roots to try to slow down his fall. The roots uncooperatively kept ripping out of the dirt.

Wesley ended up at the bottom of the embankment, his usually carefully combed hair completely askew, his clothes covered with dirt, and his face covered with several scratches. His arm was still throbbing. And as the world spun around him-the sun s.h.i.+ning down on him blissfully as if he were spending a relaxing day at the beach-Wesley lay there and said, "I really, really hate this."

Then the sun was blotted out as a figure stepped in front of it. The figure grinned down from the top of the twenty-foot incline.

"You're dead, Orange," said the figure.

With a sudden burst of strength he wouldn't have thought still in him, Wesley rolled to the right as the phaser blast from above just missed him. He's toying with me, Wesley realized. He'll be sorry for that.

He rolled into a crouch, swung up his arm, and fired.

At least, that was the plan. Except that Wesley found himself staring dumbly at an a.s.sortment of roots clutched in his fist.

It took less than an instant for Wesley to realize that he must have let go of the phaser during his efforts to stop his roll. By then it was too late, as Wesley was slammed back by a phaser blast that hit him square in the chest.

Wesley fell back and lay still.

Unmoving.

Dead.

"Dead again, Orange!" shouted his a.s.sailant. "You never could handle me."

Utterly oblivious of Wesley Crusher's recent demise, Commander William Riker strode purposefully down a corridor.

Saluting was long-outmoded in Starfleet, and even if it were still in fas.h.i.+on, the many civilians that Riker pa.s.sed would hardly be bound by military tradition. And yet there was something as he pa.s.sed both civilians and crew members. Not a salute, but always some nod of greeting, a smile, a slight touch of a finger to forehead. Everyone aboard s.h.i.+p felt a compulsion to acknowledge Riker's presence.

Respect, he wondered? Yes, certainly that, but more. Genuine affection. The people, the crew, were fond of him. Before serving aboard a stars.h.i.+p with its ma.s.sive community of a thousand people, Riker would have sworn that it was impossible to be both popular and respected. Authority was authority, and that was that. William Riker had made the decision, early in his career, that commanding the respect of his people would always be of paramount importance. He wouldn't care if he were liked or not, as long as his authority was not questioned.

And he had almost convinced himself that being liked was unimportant.

Almost.

Then again, as one particularly shapely, young woman walked past him and gave him an appreciative raise of her eyebrow, popularity certainly had its advantages.

And with the reawakening of Riker's basic interest in being liked, other aspects of his personality stirred as well.

His sense of humor, for one.

Specifically, two weeks ago he'd gone on a seventy-two-hour sh.o.r.e leave. It was the longest vacation from an a.s.signment William Riker had taken in his Starfleet career, and it had not been a willing one.

"You need the time off, Number One," Jean-Luc Picard had said with utter certainty. Jean-Luc Picard, the veteran captain of the Enterprise, had been sitting in his quarters with the serene confidence and peace of a Buddha. Riker had known that look. It was the look Picard adopted when the decision had been made, period, nothing to discuss, but debate would be entertained merely to make the subordinates feel they had contributed something.

"With all due respect, Captain, I disagree. Have you noted any diminishment in my performance and capability?"

"None whatsoever," said Picard, fingers steepled in front of him.

"Then I hardly see the need for this action."

"This is not an 'action', Number One," replied Picard. "Most people would hardly see a vacation as punitive. Generally, it's regarded as reward for a job well done."

"My job is here on this s.h.i.+p," said Riker.

"By startling coincidence, so is mine. And part of my job is to decide what the jobs of others are. And right now your job is to take seventy-two-hours sh.o.r.e leave on Gamma Origi III. It's a very relaxing planet that bears a marked resemblance to the more-pleasant areas of Alaska. And don't say you can just take some extra time in the holodeck. As effective as the deck is, GO III is more so. You will feel right at home."

"Sir, I know I grew up in Alaska, and I certainly have a great fondness for it," said Riker with a helpless gesture, "but my home is ... "

"On this s.h.i.+p," Picard finished. "I appreciate your dedication ... "

"Captain ... "

"Number One," said Picard with a tone of voice that clearly indicated the conversation had gone as far as he was going to allow it to go. "Your protest is duly noted and logged. But I am ordering you to go down to that planet and have a good time, or I'll have you loaded in a photon casing and shot down there myself."

"I take it that's your final word, sir," Riker said stiffly.

"No. This is: Goodbye."

And so Riker had gone, grumbling all the way. He knew beyond any doubt just who was responsible for this enforced holiday: Deanna Troi, the s.h.i.+p's counselor. It had to be. Who else would have the presumption to decide that she, and not Riker, knew what was best for Riker.

He could just hear in his mind the conversation: "I sense a certain degree of stress from Commander Riker," she would say in those carefully modulated tones. "He demands a great deal of himself, taking personal responsibility for everyone on this s.h.i.+p including, to a large extent, you, Captain. He works so hard to keep himself in check that it's beginning to have an adverse effect on him, and I would very much recommend some off-s.h.i.+p relaxation time for him, whether he objects or not."

What was it Geordi La Forge had once muttered about her, under his breath? "Deanna Troi, interplanetary yenta." It was said with a sense of bemus.e.m.e.nt, and Riker had checked language banks to understand the reference. Yiddish slang, for busybody. Once he had, he'd chuckled over that one (although without letting anyone spot him doing it) for quite some time. It was fairly accurate. If Deanna's job had not been to be concerned over the mental health of the crew, she would still have acted exactly the same. She just wouldn't have had the rank to back it up.

The annoying thing was, she'd been right. Riker had needed a break. He'd realized it during the second day of his "exile," while clinging batlike to the side of a mountain he was busy scaling. A sensation, vaguely familiar, worked its way through him. Relaxation. It was as if he'd been holding his breath for a year and finally exhaled.

Of course, the fact that Deanna had been right did nothing to mollify Riker's annoyance over being given the heave-ho from the confines of the Enterprise. He decided, therefore, that a certain small but harmless revenge should be taken upon those who had done the heaving. He wasn't certain yet what he would do to Deanna Troi, but a method of getting back at the captain had occurred to him at the self-same moment in the climbing trip.

The joy of it was, of course, that Captain Jean-Luc Picard, for whom Riker's respect was second to none, would never admit it, that Riker had gotten his goat. Never.

So here Riker was, his enforced vacation now only a week-old memory, and as his thoughts tumbled around he sensed, rather than saw, the presence nearby himself. He spoke without looking. "Good day, Captain."

"Number One," Picard acknowledged, matching Riker's stride. Holding back, in fact. It was a curious thing: although Picard was half-a-head shorter than Riker, somehow Riker always felt that he had to pick up his pace to keep up with Picard. "On your way to the bridge?"

Picard wasn't looking directly at him. Riker knew why, and grinned inwardly. "Yes, sir."

"Excellent. How long until our arrival at Daedalus IV?"

Riker fought down the suspicion that Picard knew and was just testing him. "Fourteen hours, sir."

Picard nodded. "It's been far too long since the colonists had a routine visit from a stars.h.i.+p."

"I agree, Captain."

"I'm glad we're in accord, then, Number One."

And still Picard wasn't looking at him! This was marvelous!

They arrived at the turbolift and the doors obediently hissed open. Riker paused, allowing the captain to enter first. Just as Riker stepped in, a voice called out, "Hold it!"

Riker turned, his broad-shouldered body obscuring the captain from view. A girl of about eighteen years of age (what was her name again, anyway? Riker blanked), wearing a tight, gold jumpsuit slit down either leg, ran up to the lift as if this were the last one that would ever appear in the s.h.i.+p.

She stood in the doorway, preventing the doors from closing. The turbolift politely and patiently waited. "Commander," she said breathlessly.

"Yes?" He smiled. "What can I do for you" (it clicked in to place) "Miss Chase?"

"My friends call me Bobbi," she said. "And I just wanted to say"- and she boldly ran her fingers across the lower-half of Riker's face-"that I really like it. Are you going to keep it? It is reaaaalllly s.e.xy."

The sound of someone very unsubtly clearing their throat came from directly behind Riker, and Bobbi glanced around his shoulder. Her eyes widened. "Oh! I ... I didn't see you there, Captain! I'm sorry."

"Obviously you had something in your eye," said Picard icily.

"I didn't mean to keep you."

"How fortunate." And then the temperature in the area dropped yet another ten degrees.

Quickly she stepped back and the doors hissed shut. Picard and Riker stared at each other, making direct eye contact for the first time since they'd met in the corridor.

"Permission to be s.e.xy, sir," said Riker, fighting to keep a straight face.

"It is not funny, Number One," snapped off Picard. "Such familiarity with family members or crew is inappropriate-Bridge," he instructed the lift.

"You have told me in the past to be the pleasant, approachable face of command, Captain, leaving you to do your job in peace. That's certainly all any of us wants."

If Picard picked up on the mild barb, he ignored it. "Yes, well, there is such a thing as doing one's job too well."

Smiling slightly, Riker reached up and stroked his chin. There, feeling comforting and masculine, was the new facial feature that had elicited such raves from the young Miss Chase (and, indeed, from a.s.sorted other female crew members.) While on his vacation, Riker had allowed his beard to grow in. It grew rather quickly and, once back aboard the Enterprise, he had carefully trimmed and shaped the full beard to give it a swashbuckling style. It added a certain rakishness to his straight-arrow image, and accented his eyes.

Picard had said nothing. Absolutely nothing. When Riker had returned he'd merely nodded and said, "Good to have you back, Number One." He issued no comments, one way or the other, presumably since it was of no importance. Picard's lack of response was, to Riker, all the proof he needed. Picard glanced at Riker, gaze unwillingly drawn toward his face, and then Picard looked straight ahead again.

And Riker knew what he was thinking, or believed he knew, and the belief would certainly be more than enough to satisfy his need for revenge.

For Riker was certain, absolutely certain, that Picard was thinking, It is cosmically unjust that my first officer has more hair on his face than I do on my entire head.

Riker's bemus.e.m.e.nt instantly vanished, however, as the communicator on Picard's chest beeped once. Picard tapped it once and said, "Picard here."

"Captain, this is Worf." The last three words were somewhat unnecessary. That ba.s.so-profundo voice could only belong to the Klingon head-of-security. "You're needed on the bridge."

"I'll be there as quickly as I can," said Picard. "Picard out."

Less than a second later, the turbolift opened onto the bridge, in the aft section. Picard walked out past Geordi La Forge, at the engineering station, toward Worf at tactical.

Geordi La Forge was ostensibly blind from birth. However, he had been fitted with a prosthetic visor, which a clever scientist had named "VISOR." This stood for Visual Instrument and Sensory Organ Replacement (Geordi had wondered how long they'd had to think to come up with that acronym) and the bottom line was that Geordi could "see" almost the full electromagnetic spectrum.