Strike Zone Part 3

And yet Geordi, for all his gifts, still did a double-take when Picard walked onto the bridge barely a second after being summoned. But La Forge recovered quickly. As Riker neared him, Geordi spoke.

"What kept you?"

"Traffic."

Picard stepped up behind Worf. "Yes, Mr. Worf? You called?"

The ma.s.sive Klingon turned and looked at his commanding officer. He gave no reaction at all; it was as if he fully expected Picard to simply materialize, like a genie from a lamp, the moment the call went out for him.

"A small s.h.i.+p, bearing 212 mark 3. It appears to be Kreel design, and"- and he made an expression of extreme distaste-"from the att.i.tude of the s.h.i.+p's commander, they would most definitely appear to be Kreel."

"A Kreel s.h.i.+p? Out this far from their s.p.a.ce."

"Yes, sir."

"Hmmm. A Kreel s.h.i.+p," Picard repeated, trying to fathom it. "Have they said what they want?"

"Yes, sir." Worf paused a moment.

"And that would be ... ?" Picard prompted.

"Our s.h.i.+p."

For long moments, Wesley Crusher lay there unmoving. His a.s.sa.s.sin stood there and, when Wesley failed to give any indication that he was still alive, said nervously, "Hey Orange? Say something."

When Wesley still didn't move, the a.s.sa.s.sin hopped over the edge of the embankment, scurrying down quickly and endeavoring not to lose his balance. His arms pinwheeled as, once, he almost slipped and fell. Finally he drew up next to Wesley and said "Come on, Orange. Say something."

Slowly Wesley opened his eyes. "I really hate this," he said. "I keep saying that and I still let you pull me into this."

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not, Jaan. You never are."

"Let me help you up."

"I can do it just fine, thanks," said Wesley, still irritated with himself. He stood, brus.h.i.+ng the leaves and dirt off himself and shaking his head. "Why do I let you talk me into these stupid games? I'm sixteen years old, for crying out loud. I'm an acting ensign. If we want to have some sort of compet.i.tion, why don't we play a nice game of chess?"

"Because it's boring."

"That's besides the point."

"And you always win."

"Aha!" said Wesley as they headed toward the exit. "Now it comes out."

They made their way through the forest. Some sort of buzzing insect insisted on plaguing Wesley. Then a thin, long-fingered hand reached out and batted the annoyance away. "Thanks, Jaan," said Wesley.

Jaan was a head taller than Wesley and, indeed, many years older. But Jaan's race lived longer than humans, and he was still a relative adolescent.

Jaan's race, the Selelvians, were among the most beautiful in the galaxy. He was a s.h.i.+ning, if somewhat eccentric, example why.

Tall and slender, with long, graceful limbs, Jaan had darkish red hair, which hung to just above his sloping shoulders, and a mouth twisted in a perpetual look of amus.e.m.e.nt. His clothes were flamboyantly multicolored and hung loosely. He didn't seem to walk so much as glide.

For all the traits the Selelvians possessed, the nickname they had been given as a whole by humans was, obviously, "elves."

Yet another insect began to pursue the hapless Wesley, but by this point they had reached their destination. The forest seemed to stretch onward forever in front of them, but Wesley uttered a command that the s.h.i.+pboard computer promptly obeyed. A hole appeared in the forest and through the aperture could be seen the corridor of the Enterprise.

The two young men stepped through. The insect followed, determined to pierce Wesley's skin and drain all the blood from him. However it, just like the forest, was a product of the holodeck. The moment it pa.s.sed into the corridor, the insect was gone. Wesley had the considerable pleasure of watching the annoying bug vanish back to the nothingness from which it had come.

"Using your brain is all well and good," Jaan was saying, "but you need exercise, Orange."

"Why do you call him 'Orange'?"

The two of them turned, and Wesley felt his mouth go dry. Bobbi, who had earlier been raving over Will Riker's beard, was looking at them with curiosity. "Why?" she repeated, her arms folded across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Wesley Crusher tried to find just the right thing to say, calling upon all the prowess of his reputed genius intellect. "Duhhhh ... " he managed to get out, as Bobbi stared at him guilelessly.

"Old earth drink," Jaan said quickly. "I found it in some old files in the food synthesizers. Orange Crush. Crush. Crusher. Get it?"

"Oh," said Bobbi, and blinked. "It's not really funny."

"Well it's not supposed to be," replied Jaan with the pleasant arrogance that only his race was capable of carrying off. Elves could say practically anything, and they looked so good doing it that they were usually forgiven almost immediately, no matter how snide or high-handed they sounded.

Nevertheless Wesley subtley elbowed him in the ribs. "It's just a stupid nickname," said Wesley.

"Oh. Okay." Her curiosity satisfied, Bobbi walked away.

Jaan shook his head. "Can you pick your jaw up off the floor now?"

"Oh, please. I wasn't that bad. Tell me I wasn't that bad."

"What do you see in her?" said Jaan in puzzlement. "She's pleasant to look at, but nowhere as bright as y-"

"I am so sick of that," said Wesley with unexpected, even uncharacteristic, annoyance. He started down the hallway, and now it was Jaan, much to his surprise, who had to rush to keep up. "I am so sick of everybody thinking of me as if I were some sort of ... of genius."

"Now why, in the name of Kolker, would anybody think that?"

Wesley gave him a sidelong glance. "Great. Now you're being sarcastic."

"Well, what did you expect? You go around putting together devices that left two engineering heads in tears because they could barely understand how they worked. Everyone figures that Picard put Geordi in charge of engineering because, at least, he can't see the latest Crusher miracle."

And Wesley turned on him with surprising vehemence, stabbing a finger at him. "Don't you ever say stuff like that about Geordi. Not when I'm around. In fact, not ever."

"I'm sorry, all right?" said Jaan quickly. "It was just a bad joke. Forget I said it."

They started walking again, heading in the general direction of the Ten-Four Room, one of the more frequent haunts of the Enterprise crew. Jaan could take it or leave it, but Wesley felt even more a part of the actual stars.h.i.+p crew whenever he was there.

"You know what they call me," Wesley was muttering. "I hear it behind my back. They call me the 'Brain Trust.' "

"That's not exactly a profanity."

Wesley turned and stopped dead in his tracks looking at his friend. "I feel like it puts a distance between me and everybody else," he said. "I can't help the things that I can do. Deanna Troi senses emotions, no one thinks that's any big deal. Vulcans can knock people out by touching their shoulders, and it's business as usual. Those are their gifts, their skills. Me, I cobble together some stuff that runs through my head, and I'm Wesley Crusher, the Brain Trust. People are starting to give me almost as much distance as they do Captain Picard."

"Is that an insult to you, or a compliment?" asked Jaan.

Wesley stared at him and realized that the question was quite valid. "You know ... I'm not sure."

"It can be taken however you want it to be taken," said Jaan easily. "For what it's worth, Orange, I happen to think you can do absolutely anything."

"You certainly know how to insult a person," said Wesley with no heat.

And at that moment the sound of a yellow-alert klaxon echoed throughout the s.h.i.+p. Wesley's head snapped around in alarm and they heard Picard's voice over the intercom. There was such a controlled casualness about it that one would have thought he was announcing the weather.

"Attention all hands," Picard was saying. "We have encountered a possibly hostile vessel. We are endeavoring to reason with the inhabitants at this time. However, we would like all noncombatants to report to your quarters, should separation become necessary."

It was a maneuver that had served the Enterprise in several earlier instances. When danger threatened, the s.h.i.+p's saucer would separate from the aft section. This enabled the speedier aft section, aided by the warp nacelles, to handle whatever opponent they were up against, while the family-laden saucer section maneuvered out of the hazardous area, albeit at sublight speed.

"Come on!" said Jaan urgently, tugging on Wesley's elbow.

"You go on ahead. I'm getting up to the bridge."

"Orange! For the love of-"

"I'm an acting ensign! My place is there. Besides, I'm not going to miss the chance to see Captain Picard in action in an emergency." He dashed into the nearest turbolift and barked, "Bridge!"

Jaan, standing helplessly in the hallway, said, "But Orange, what about-?"

"You heard the captain! Move it!" called Wesley, and the turbolift doors hissed shut.

Jaan sighed, turned ... and doubled over. As others raced around him, he clutched at his stomach, cramps knocking the wind from him. In agony, he straightened up and leaned against the wall.

"Not now," he muttered. "Not now ... "

Chapter Two.

"NOT NOW, MR. Crusher!"

Picard wasn't removing his gaze from the main viewer as Wesley said, "My place is here, sir!"

"Mr. Crusher, as admirable a job as you have done up to now, if we're going into a potential combat situation, I prefer a more experienced hand at the conn."

"Please, Captain. A Starfleet officer belongs where he can do the crew the most good."

"Who told you that?" said Picard.

"You did."

Picard frowned, turning and staring at Wesley for the first time. "I did?"

"Yes, sir."

Wesley met the stare. He knew d.a.m.ned well Picard had never said that. But it sounded like something he would say. However, if Picard pressed for details, there was no way Wesley was going to have the stones to carry off further fabrication.

"Mr. Marks," Picard said. "Relinquish conn to Mr. Crusher."

Wesley opened his mouth and then closed it again. He turned quickly, before Picard had a chance to change his mind, and went to the conn station. Marks, tall and gangling, barely had time to get up before Wesley had taken his place. And Wesley heard Marks mutter under his breath, "Brain Trust."

"Mr. Crusher," came the stern voice of the Captain from behind.

He knows, Wesley thought with alarm, and managed to say, "Yes, Captain?"

"The next time you present yourself on the bridge, may I suggest you do not look as if you have just come in from the playground."

Wesley looked down at himself and moaned softly. His clothes were still dirty and rumpled from the survival games in the holodeck. No doubt, his face was covered with grime as well. He had completely forgotten about his appearance in the rush of subsequent events.

He was about to offer an apology, but Picard wasn't looking for one. Besides that, there was no longer the opportunity as a gravelly voice, a barely-translatable series of growls, sounded over the s.h.i.+p-to-s.h.i.+p communications.

"This is the Kreel s.h.i.+p Zon.o.bor," came the voice. "Where is your ground-kissing coward of a commander?"

Picard did not take the bait. "This is Captain Picard," he replied, his tone carefully neutral. "You have some business with us?"

The Kreel s.h.i.+p hung there in s.p.a.ce, well within phaser range, as if the Enterprise posed no physical threat at all. "Yes, business," came the voice. "You are to surrender your s.h.i.+p to us."

Worf spoke up from behind Picard. "Permission to blast them from s.p.a.ce, sir."

Picard turned and frowned. Even for Worf, that was extremely aggressive. "Is there a problem, Mr. Worf?"

"Kreel cannot be reasoned with," replied the Klingon. "Or bargained with, or even treated as any civilized race. To endeavor to do so is, in my opinion, a waste of this vessel's time and capabilities."

"In my opinion, it is not." He turned to Deanna Troi. The counselor was seated to his left, straight in her chair and taut as a piano wire. "Counselor, what impressions are you getting?"

Troi began to speak, then paused and appeared to s.h.i.+ft gears. "Nothing you have not already surmised, Captain."

It seemed to Picard there was something she wasn't saying, but he opted not to call her on it. His next question, one that would normally fall upon the security chief to answer, he deliberately directed elsewhere. "Data," he said slowly, "are you aware of any Kreel technology that poses a threat to this vessel?"

In the ops seat next to Wesley, the white-skinned android promptly began to process his captain's request for information. For only a fraction of a second, his gold eyes actually seemed to turn inward, as if his optic nerves were somehow scanning the resources of his own brain. He tilted his head slightly, like a dog listening to an inaudible whistle.

"At this time," Data responded so quickly that the pause between question and answer was undetectable, "the Kreel continue to be one of the more primitive races in terms of technology. They have s.p.a.cegoing capability, but their experiments in matter transportation have all failed to date, usually in rather grisly fas.h.i.+on. Their hand weapons are simple disruptors, their vessel armament primarily light pulses that pose no threat to our s.h.i.+elds."

"As I thought," said Picard.

"Their weapons development," continued Data, and from the tone of voice it was evident that a ma.s.sive tangent was about to be embarked upon, "can be traced back to-"