The Sky's The Limit Part 33

"Most," Worf agreed.

"Well, there's no catchall inoculation, so what type of allergen-"

"Feline."

Tropp looked at Worf as if he thought the Klingon was joking. "Feline? You mean cats? Earth cats."

"Yes." Worf could read Tropp's curiosity in his expression and was not in a mood to explain in great detail. "Commander Data's cat will require a home. Until one is found, the captain has given me responsibility for care of the animal." Worf grimaced. "I have looked after Spot before."

"And that's when you found out you were allergic?"

Worf nodded. "I was sneezing on her."

Tropp nodded slowly. "Well, I'll get that sorted out for you." He busied himself at a chemical synthesizer. "It's actually quite unusual to find feline allergies in this day and age. And even for people who are allergic, only about two-thirds of cats are allergenic."

"Spot is one of them," Worf a.s.sured him, as Tropp gave him his shot.

"Well, it shouldn't be too much of a problem now. That should keep you hale and hearty."

"It had better," Worf muttered.

Worf entered his quarters and stopped. The carrier containing Spot was right next to the door, ready to be handed over to, or taken to, Spot's eventual new home. Worf hadn't antic.i.p.ated that he would even have to open the carrier himself.

A plaintive mewling was coming from inside the cat carrier. Spot had clearly not been enjoying her imprisonment. That was a thing Worf understood. He bent down and opened the container. "You may come out now," he said. Nothing happened. He waited a moment, then bent to see if the creature was all right. Perhaps the mewling sound was a noise of pain or illness? There was a breeze of motion, and Worf almost sneezed. The inoculation seemed to be working, however.

As Worf straightened, Spot moved quietly forward. She looked around, sniffing the air. Without warning, she dashed for the bed, a fluid orange blur, and leaped up onto it. Worf did not want to share his bed with cat hairs. He lifted her back onto the floor and received a withering look in return.

Worf glared at the creature. It was repulsively...fluffy, too much like an accursed tribble, in the same way that swimming was too much like bathing. Spot jumped back up on the bed and began to wash herself. Worf gritted his teeth; at least tribbles were not so athletic. This creature was undisciplined and did not know its place. These were both things it would have to learn if it was not to get in the way. "Computer," Worf said, "restrict door exit privileges to these quarters. Door sensors should not respond to"-he glanced at the signage on Spot's carrier, which gave Spot's transponder code-"feline one-four." All pets on board a stars.h.i.+p were chipped with a subcutaneous transponder so that the computer could track them.

"Confirmed. Door exit protocols have been modified to exclude activation by feline one-four."

Now, Worf realized, the cat was essentially locked in with him. Some duties were definitely more onerous than others.

Freedom! It stretched itself, working out muscle cramps it had developed from its time in confinement, and tried to determine where the others might be. It got no sense of their locations but could tell they were somewhere in the vicinity.

A curve of plain carpet led away from the container that had been its home for the past several days. There was no sign of any other beings around, which was good. It should have complete freedom of movement now, to find the others. They would be doing the same.

Wasting no more time, it set off.

Spot cautiously watched the large Klingon. The last time she had spent any length of time in his presence, he had sneezed on her several times. She didn't want to give him the opportunity to repeat the offense.

The bed, though clean, still held an odor of him. It was strong and distinctive, rea.s.suring in a way that his appearance and manner were not.

Ejected from the bed, Spot prowled round her new territory. The distinctive scent of the one she would be sharing her quarters with, Worf, adhered comfortingly to the furnis.h.i.+ngs and to the strange objects that adorned the walls. It was a much stronger scent than that of Data, who used to share Spot's other quarters, but it was good. Spot liked it. She wondered whether the scent or the pose was the truest sign of the real being. She kept her distance for the moment but began to have hope that he wasn't going to sneeze in her face this time.

She peered around the corners of the bed and the storage areas. There was nothing in the tiny gaps between the furniture and the walls. Gentle breezes wafted in from vents near the floor, and she followed them to their sources, wondering whether there were any openings through which she could fit. She had approached the door, of course, and it had not opened for her. She didn't mind; she was only curious as to whether it would work for her or not. This was a territory she could be comfortable with.

There were several blades supported on the walls. One was large and curved, like a huge double claw. The scent of old blood clung to it, and to a pair of smaller angular blades. They had all been cleaned and smelled of disinfectant as well as the blood, but that tang of victory couldn't quite be erased. Spot considered this. Worf must be from a worthy lineage. Cats value lineage, though they believe that each generation should go off and make its own way in the world-or galaxy.

Spot missed the golden-skinned companion who had shared so many years of her life. He had fed her well and responded well to her needs and wants. She had no doubt that this new companion was going to be very different.

Worf sat, preparing to enjoy the rokeg blood pie that his adoptive mother had had transported up to the s.h.i.+p for him. She always sent him some home-cooked food when the Enterprise was in Earth orbit. The replicators on board synthesized a reasonable approximation of the Klingon dish, which was nutritious enough, but they did not use the true ingredients. The replicator could not properly create live gagh or blood that had oxygenated a living creature. To put it simply, it could not replicate good home cooking.

Just as he was about to eat, Spot jumped up onto the table.

The dish smelled interesting. It smelled like fresh prey. She looked at Worf, who glared back. This was interesting; Data the Golden had never brought forth the spoils of a hunt. This one liked his food raw and fresh caught; that was much more understandable. And the smell...Much stronger and richer than Data or any of the humans. A scent of vibrance and full of life, yes. Like all cats, Spot preferred scents that were strong and clear.

Spot didn't mind the glare, or the tone of voice, or any other aspect of the Klingon's demeanor. He was not the doting kind, she recognized, so he wouldn't interfere with much-needed sleep to make baby talk. He seemed able to keep himself to himself, and he understood the value of just sitting quietly, but if the smell of the fresh kill was anything to go by, he too was a killer, ready to spring at any moment. He might not like her, but he should understand her. He probably wouldn't challenge her with rude stares. As he was trying to ignore her, he would not be smothering, and that was good, in Spot's opinion.

Worf let out a low rumble in the back of his throat and put Spot back on the floor. He moved to the replicator and said, "Feline supplement number..." How many of these cat food recipes had Data programmed? He recalled Data once mentioning number twenty-five being Spot's favorite, so there must be at least that many. "Twenty-five," Worf finished. A gla.s.s dish with the requested food materialized in the slot, and Worf put it down for Spot.

Spot was nearby, watching, but made no immediate move toward the food. Worf ignored the cat's behavior. It would either eat the food now or not. It was the cat's choice to make, and if she wanted to go hungry, or save it for later, then so be it.

Picard had long since got into the habit of making walking tours of his s.h.i.+p when he had the time, and not just when there was an important event in the offing. Originally he had conducted inspections, but he and his crew had now been working together for so long that keeping tabs on them wasn't necessary. However, he took pleasure in seeing his crew-many of them his friends-working at their best. In turn, they were rea.s.sured by his interest.

Leaving the bridge, he had taken a turbolift down to Deck 16 and walked into main engineering. Geordi La Forge was standing near the dilithium chamber, overseeing the sealing of its articulation frames. "Captain," he said, alerting others in engineering to Picard's visit. n.o.body sprang to attention or began working harder; they were all doing their jobs to the best of their ability, and they knew that was all that Picard asked.

"Mister La Forge. How is the engineering refit going?"

"It's going pretty well, Captain, if I do say so myself." He squinted one last time at the dilithium chamber and ticked off something on a padd. "The final engine upgrades have been installed and all systems reset."

"Good," Picard said with a nod. "I'll want to begin engine tests as soon as possible. Run her in, so to speak."

Geordi nodded in agreement. "We still have some simulations to run, and it'll take a while for the warp core to reach optimal settings, but we can begin impulse testing anytime."

"We'll start with maneuvering systems while we're within the moon's...o...b..t," Picard said. "It's a straightforward engineering test in friendly s.p.a.ce, ideal for a skeleton crew and new recruits."

"Before going out on a real mission?"

"Just so." Picard took a last look around and smiled. "Carry on, Mister La Forge."

Worf could feel Spot's eyes on him throughout his meal, but she had either the sense or the decorum to not try to steal any of it. Afterward, it was time to check the progress of the crew rotation. Picard had asked to be notified when the last of the week's new arrivals had boarded. According to the data downloaded into his padd, this had now happened.

Leaving his quarters, Worf headed toward the nearest turbolift. He had made only one turn when he had to stop. A trunk was sitting in the middle of the corridor. Worf stood over the trunk and looked both ways along the corridor, seeing no sign of its owner. It was a standard piece of Starfleet-issue luggage; he had at least one in storage himself.

For a moment, Worf wondered if the trunk might contain a bomb, or be b.o.o.by-trapped in some way. He discounted the possibility immediately. If it was a terrorist bomb, it would have been placed out of the way, where it would not likely be discovered, rather than left to trip anyone walking down the corridor. Crouching beside it, Worf saw that the lid was slightly open. He briefly returned to his quarters and collected a tricorder. The scan showed no signs of explosives or active devices. Satisfied, he opened the lid. The trunk contained nothing but clothing. There was a Starfleet code on the lid, which the data on his padd said was a.s.signed to a Lieutenant Gregory of stellar cartography. "Computer, where are Lieutenant Gregory's quarters?"

"Deck 8, section 4-alpha," the computer responded promptly.

"And where is Lieutenant Gregory now?"

"Lieutenant Gregory is in his quarters."

Setting his teeth, Worf carried the trunk to the nearest turbolift and instructed it, "Deck 8." In moments, he was carrying the trunk along a curving corridor, his eyes scanning the tiny signage on the doors. When he found the right door, he thumbed the chime and folded his arms.

A blond human of less than thirty years of age appeared in the doorway, his uniform crumpled and open at the throat. Behind him, padds, books, and other bric-a-brac were scattered untidily around the floor between open bags and boxes.

"Lieutenant Gregory," Worf said without preamble. He dumped the trunk into Gregory's arms. "Is this your trunk?"

Gregory nodded eagerly. "Why, yes, it is, uh, Commander." His eagerness stalled a little when he realized the rank of the big Klingon. He smiled uncertainly. "Thank you, sir. I thought I'd never see it again."

"Then perhaps you should not have left it in the corridor."

"But, sir, I didn't." Gregory waved his hands vaguely, a human propensity that always set Worf's teeth on edge. "The last I saw that trunk was at s.p.a.ce Station McKinley. It didn't make it over to the Enterprise with me, and I thought it had been lost in transit."

"Did you report this transporter malfunction?"

"I called back to McKinley to ask why they didn't send it with me. I'm still waiting to hear back from them."

"Open it," Worf ordered bluntly, "and confirm its contents. Is anything missing, or has anything been added to it?"

Gregory retreated into the cabin and put the trunk on a chair. "Uh, please, Commander, come in." The invitation was unnecessary, as Worf was already watching over his shoulder. Gregory shuffled through the clothes and boots in the trunk. "Everything's just as it should be, Commander."

"Nothing is missing?"

"Not that I can tell. And there's definitely nothing extra in here..." His voice trailed off in a way that suggested there was something he wasn't sure whether to mention.

"If you have any more to say, do so now."

"It's probably nothing. I just thought there was a bit of a...a funny smell there for a minute. I thought I'd had all these things cleaned before I packed them, but maybe I missed something." Worf refrained from commenting, but he could tell from the lieutenant's expression that his own expression said all that needed to be said.

Picard had settled into his new seat on the bridge. It felt physically as comfortable as his old one, but he couldn't help thinking that it didn't. "Maneuvering thrusters," he ordered, "three-quarters forward. Take us out." The ensign at the helm was already executing the maneuver, as she acknowledged with, "Three-quarters, aye, sir."

Tiny flares of heated gas flickered, shoving the great stars.h.i.+p into forward motion. Effortlessly, like a brig whose sails have caught the wind at the harbor mouth, the Enterprise slid out from the grip of the orbital dock.

Although Earth orbit was always busy with traffic approaching or departing, Starfleet had made sure there was a wide corridor for the Enterprise. Their newly restored thoroughbred would be in no danger of running down smaller travelers in her path.

It had been reunited with its fellows. The reunion was a great joy and a great relief. It was good to be normal once more and with all the emotions and intelligence that it knew and deserved.

The reunion was also short, for there was much work to be done, and none of the fellow travelers were work shy. It had made its way to a storage area where there was a viewport. No parts of the drydock now obscured the view of Earth below. The s.h.i.+p was in free flight.

That meant it was time.

Worf had tried to put the trunk out of his mind, but he couldn't. He wasn't sure why, but somehow he could imagine Captain Riker following up on it. Or perhaps Data, in one of his Sherlock Holmes holodeck fantasies. What would either of them do, in his position? Data would probably know the answer already, but Riker would keep at it like an animal feeding on its kill.

Perhaps it was an indication of a transporter malfunction? If so, it would be important. With only one transporter room operational, it could leave the s.h.i.+p reliant entirely on shuttles. Feeling vaguely and uncomfortably like an XO, Worf sought out Geordi. He was sitting at his master display panel in engineering. "Commander La Forge."

"What can I do for you, Worf?"

"Have there been any reports of transporter malfunctions lately?"

Geordi looked surprised at the question. "No, none at all. The phase transition coils are all brand-new anyway, and all the crew rotation transports have been boosted from Station McKinley's transporters."

"Could their transporters be malfunctioning?"

"Well, McKinley's been in service for decades, but it's Earth's main transit point for orbital transfers. Its engineering team is one of the biggest in Starfleet and would be pretty quick to pick up on any malfunction." Geordi shook his head. "Why do you ask? Is there some problem?"

"I found a piece of luggage in a corridor. The crew member it belonged to says he lost it in transit."

"You mean it materialized in a corridor instead of on the pad?" Geordi sounded as concerned as he was curious. He turned his chair around and pulled up a schematic. "Did he call in a report?"

"Not yet. He says he believed that the trunk simply was not sent from McKinley, even though it was on the pad next to him."

"Well, it's always possible they could have selected one pad to activate and not another, but there would have to have been a reason to split up a set of transports that are all going to the same place."

"Such as?"

"I dunno...Maybe there was a malfunction warning on one pad, and the transporter operator decided to shut it down. Or maybe there was something the operator thought was dangerous and decided to hold in transit. But that would happen only if, say, someone was firing a weapon as they were picked up in the beam."

"And could one object be separated in the pattern buffer and rematerialized in a different location from the rest of the pattern?"

"It could be done, but it'd be tricky and probably not worth the effort. Or the risk. But I'll have it checked out."

Worf considered all of this. None of it sounded likely to have happened, but this meant another possibility. "Then perhaps we have a thief on board, who was disturbed before he could steal from the trunk and had to drop it."

"Or maybe a grudge," suggested Geordi. "Some kind of prank aimed at Gregory."

"That is also possible," Worf admitted. "Thank you. I have much to think about before the next security briefing."

Spot had eaten well. The Klingon had known her favorite food and given her it. She had, of course, waited until he had left before she ate it. It wouldn't do for her companion to consider her too predictable.

Satisfied, she strolled through the quarters again. There were gaps between walls and furniture, and the occasional openable closet or drawer. These would all be good places in which to hide when she wanted to have fun watching her companion's reactions, or when she wanted a nap that wouldn't be disturbed. She was about to settle down for a doze when a breath of air ruffled her fur. Curious, she turned her head around until the breeze was in her face.

There was a vent high up in the wall above a strange chair made of dense black globes. A mesh grille covered the vent. Spot leaped up onto the chair and onto the highest of the black globes. Another jump took her onto a thin ledge right next to the vent. There was a strange scent coming from it, something she had never smelled before.

Spot rubbed the side of her head against the corner of the grille, and it moved slightly, coming away from the wall. The tip of her tail writhed from side to side with excitement. She wondered if she could get inside. One paw could get between the grille and the edge of the vent, and then her narrow nose and snout could follow.

In moments, Spot had wedged her head and one front paw into the gap and was trying to get the rest of her shoulders in. For several long, horrible moments, she thought she was stuck. Her heart raced faster and faster with the terror of ending up hanging from the wall in such a position, her neck twisted and dragged sideways more and more painfully until it snapped.

Then the grille buckled, and Spot was so surprised that she almost fell back out of the gap. Recovering, she pushed her way through. There was a horrible moment when she thought she might get stuck, but she stretched herself out and felt her ribs bend uncomfortably, and then she was through. She straightened and stretched and flexed her tail, then examined her surroundings.

She was in a crawl s.p.a.ce that was much like any other. Blinking indicator lights here and there cast very faint colors onto the conduits and pipes that filled the s.p.a.ce. A hint of a breeze wafted through the crawl s.p.a.ce, bringing with it the scents of the materials the environment was made of. Those scents, she was already familiar with. It was that other scent that she wanted to know about, the one that had pa.s.sed by the vent so recently.

La Forge found Worf hunched over a prune juice in the crew's lounge, which Captain Riker had dubbed "The Happy Bottom Riding Club" just prior to his departure. The fact that Worf detested the name and refused to use it had become no small source of amus.e.m.e.nt to the engineer.

Geordi picked up a drink from the bar and sat opposite Worf. "I checked out the transporters," Geordi began. "Level-three diagnostics and a trawl through the transporter logs show no malfunctions or anomalous transports. However Gregory's trunk got into the corridor on Deck 6, it wasn't beamed there."

"That suggests a thief." Worf almost spat the word.

"Maybe."

"I will begin checking, beginning with the new arrivals."

"It's your department, not mine. I wish-" Geordi fell silent. "Never mind."

"What?"

"I was just going to say I wish Data were here. He could think faster than any of us."