STAR TREK - TNG - Immortal Coil

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This one is for Katie.
Forever.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead
is entirely coincidental.
AnOriginal Publication of POCKET BOOKS
Copyright © 2002 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.
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POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Acknowledgments, naturally, to Gene Roddenberry, not only forStar Trek, but for other worlds he
created in his career, and one in particular. If I told you here which one I meant, well, what fun would
that be? I would also like to thank the many writers, producers and other creative folk who helped
populate theTrek universe, most especially to the following for the use of their ideas in this work: Robert
Bloch, Richard Manning, Hans Beimler, Tracy Torme, Stephen Kandel, Dan Koeppel, Rene Echevarria,
Melinda Snodgrass, Jerome Bixby, John Meredyth Lucas, Boris Sobelman, and John Kingsbridge. No
doubt I have inadvertently omitted a few, so my apologies in advance to you all.
May I request a round of applause for the actors who helped create such indelible characters? In
particular, I'd like to offer a tip of the authorial beanie to Mr. Brent Spiner. Many hands may have
created his mind, but Spiner gave Data a soul.
A gracious thank you to friends, family, neighbors, colleagues and the occasional complete stranger who
have listened to me alternately wax enthusiastic and whine bitterly about this project. Most especially
hugs and manly expressions of affection (where applicable) to Heather Jarman, Helen Atkins, Helen
Szigeti, Tristan Mayer, Joshua Macy, my wife, Katie Fritz, and our son, Andrew.
And last (though most definitely not least), a toast to Marco Palmieri, who said, “I have this idea for a
book about Data and the role of artificial intelligence in theTrek universe.” If there was any justice in the
universe (or a little more, anyway), his name would be on the cover, too. He'll modestly deny that, but
I'm here to tell you that it's true. Thanks, dude.
Seventy Years Ago
SOMEDAY,THOUGHTNOONIEN SOONG,when I have a choice in the matter, I'm going to live
where it's always hot. Not warm. Not temperate. Hot.
Checking to see that his lifeline was secure, Soong set his legs against the face of the cliff, raised his
hands to his mouth, and, after lifting his breathing mask, puffed onto them in three quick, sharp breaths.
The battery packs for the warming coils in his gloves were dying. When Ira Graves first mentioned this
little expedition, he'd told Soong to pack gear for climbing in cold environments. But Soong had
interpreted that to mean the sort of conditions you might find in the North American Rockies or, at worst,
the lower reaches of the Alps. Nobody had said anything aboutthis —sub-zero temperatures, practically
no atmosphere and freakish rock formations. Soong had completed some difficult climbs in his not-quite
two decades, but even with the antigravs, the conditions he was currently facing were a little more
complex than anything he'd faced before.
Soong decided to blame everything on Graves. It was convenient. Just because Graves was arrogantly
brilliant (or brilliantly arrogant—Soong wasn't sure which) didn't mean he was always perfectly in control
ofeverything. Academia, Soong had concluded, was a pond where the little fish—students like
himself—were gobbled up by the bigger fish—grad assistants like Graves—who were, in turn, gobbled
up by even bigger fish like Dr. Emil Vaslovik, probably the biggest fish he was ever likely to meet.
He would have liked to flatter himself by thinking that it was his exemplary work in the artificial
intelligence workshops that had brought him to Vaslovik's attention, but Soong understood enough about
how the system worked to admit that his mountaineering skills probably had more to do with it. Maybe
Vaslovik had heard about the time Soong had climbed the campus clock tower.Going to have to work
on curbing those impulses, Noonien . . . Whatever the case, when Graves had contacted him and told
him—not invited, buttold him—“You're going on a little trip next week,” Soong knew he wasn't really in
a position to refuse. So, there he was: halfway down a ninety-meter cliff while the two other men who
had brought him here sat on a ledge twenty meters above him.There has got to be a better way to get
ahead in life, he decided.
His scan had revealed that there was another ledge approximately twelve meters below him, but the
lantern dangling from his belt wasn't powerful enough to cut the gloom. He was just going to have to trust
his abilities and take it slow, the way his father had taught him. Soong activated the comm link inside his
breathing mask with the tip of his tongue and said, “I'm going to continue my descent now. Does the
tricorder show anything unusual below me?”
Too loudly, Graves said,“No. Nothing. The cliff face is stable. You should be okay.”
Soong tapped the comm link again and said, “Not so loud, Ira. You're going to shake me off the cliff.”
Vaslovik switched on his comm and asked in his grave, yet oddly soothing manner,“Are you all right
down there, Noonien?”
Soong grinned. It was only the fourth time Vaslovik had asked him that in the past twenty minutes.
Somehow, he hadn't expected the quadrant's greatest expert on machine intelligence to be quite so . . .
grandfatherly.But what did I expect? Someone who spoke in syntactically perfect sentences and
glided like a mech on ball bearings? He decided grandfatherly was good, grandfatherly was, in fact,
just fine. It helped to make up for Graves who, by contrast, was condescending and just generally
insufferable.
Soong shook himself.That's a good way to get into trouble, Noonien. His father would have cuffed
him on the ear.Think about what you're doing, about where you're placing your foot next. The cold
was getting to him. He could feel himself drifting.
Soong inspected his safety line, then checked the telltales on the antigravs. The right battery pack
showed bright green, but the left one was blinking yellow. He did a quick test, pushing off the cliff face,
and felt a slight wobble.Not good, he thought. The batteries were supposed to drain evenly and keep him
stable.Probably the cold, Soong decided. The packs hadn't been rated for sub-zero work.
But I'm okay for now,he decided.All the more reason to get this over with quickly. He set the
antigravs for full, then squeezed the release on the guide rope, and slowly eased off the antigrav. Pushing
off the cliff with his toes, Soong expertly rappelled down about six meters, then stopped and set his feet,
flipped the antigravs back up to full.Damn, he thought.These gloves are just not doing it. He checked
the view between his legs, waiting for his lamp to stop swinging back and forth. Nothing unusual. The
ledge should be only another five meters, maybe less.Wait. What's that? Something odd below,
something pointing in the wrong direction.
Soong tried to sidestep across the face of the ice to get a different angle, but the cliff face was too
smooth.It would help immensely if I knew what the hell I was looking for, he thought disgustedly, but
Vaslovik had been tight-lipped on this point. “You'll know it when you see it,” he'd said.“If you see it.
For now, just concentrate on getting to the bottom of the chasm so we can set up the pattern enhancers.
If we can do that, we can transport down the workstations, set up a shelter, get the sensors going and do
some serious work. I'll be more surprised than not if you see anything on the way down.” It was, up to
that point, the longest single speech Vaslovik had addressed to Soong and there was something about
how the dour, silver-haired man spoke that made you take everything he said very,very personally. His
eyes never left yours, though there was a definite temptation to try to let your own gaze slide away
toward random objects. Listening to Vaslovik required willpower.
“So, why not just transport directly to the bottom of the chasm?” he had considered asking, but hadn't.
If that had been an option, he knew Vaslovik would have done it. Checking the ship's sensor logs, it
became clear: there was something very peculiar about the place. The sensors—and they were verygood
sensors, despite their age—couldn't penetrate the interference around the area. Might be mineral deposits
or low-level radiation, or . . . Something else. Soong tried not to think about that option too much.
Whatever the case, transporting without enhancers would be extremely risky. “Not thatthis isn't risky,”
he muttered to himself.
“What was that, Soong?”Graves asked.
“Nothing, Ira. Just catching my breath.”
His attention was wandering again.Okay, Noonien, concentrate. Do the drill, just like Father taught
you. Check your levels, antigravs up, squeeze the release, push . . . He pushed off and suddenly
found himself with no support on the left side. The antigrav had failed. He released the pressure on the
handgrip, hoping the autolock mechanism would stop his descent, but it was too late. He had already
started sliding and tumbling.
Soong released the autogrip and grabbed the rope, then flattened himself against the cliff face, toes
digging in for purchase. He'd been in this situation once or twice before, just like anyone who climbed
regularly. There was no avoiding it; equipment failed. The difference here was that on the other occasions
there had been someone above him, someone more experienced, someone he knew and trusted—usually
his father—watching to make sure the safety lines were fixed and secure. Graves began to shout,
“Soong! Soong!” —almost making him lose his grip on the rock because of the need to tear out his
earpiece.
He felt a jolt as he cracked his knee on a rock. There was no pain, though he knew that would come if
he survived the next couple of seconds. He could feel the bite of the cord as it slid through his gloves, but
there was no sensation of his descent slowing.Cord must be wet, he decided.
And, then, another shock—up through both legs this time—and a sensation that he imagined must be
how icicles feel after they've lost their grip on the eaves of a building and shattered on the pavement
below. All sensation dimmed down for a moment and Soong realized he was slipping into
unconsciousness.No, no. Bad idea. Bad idea, he thought and willed himself back to awareness, and all
the attendant discomfort. Everything below his waist was screaming at him and he saw a bright light.Has
Ira already started climbing down? he wondered, but then realized he was staring into the lens of his
lamp. It had broken loose and was lying on the ground . . . no, not the ground. A ledge.
Fighting down panic, Soong gingerly felt to his side, searched for the edge of the precipice and found it.
Maybe a meter wide where he was sitting, though it seemed to be wider to his left. It seemed stable, so
Soong shifted his weight, then rolled off the handgrip that had been stabbing him in the side, and pulled
himself up into a sitting position. His pants were shredded and there was a fair amount of blood smeared
on the tatters, but he could move his legs so he knew they weren't broken. He pulled out the med pack,
peeled an anesthetic dermpatch off the roll and applied it to his thigh. Soong was rewarded with almost
instantaneous relief, the pain dropping down to a dull throb. A quick pass with the medical tricorder
confirmed what he suspected—scrapes and some serious contusions, but nothing life-threatening. He set
to work patching up the worst of it. Blood loss in such a cold place was a bad thing.
Soong became aware of a distant buzzing sound, so he groped around until he found his earpiece. He
tapped the comm link and said, “Graves? Ira? Please stop shouting. I fell, but I'm all right.” The buzz
from the earpiece died away and was replaced by a dim murmur. Vaslovik was speaking.
“Noonien? You're safe?”
“For now, Dr. Vaslovik. I'm on a ledge maybe forty meters down. I'm hurt, but not critically. If you can
wait a moment, I'm going to try to bandage myself up.”
“All right, Noonien. Go ahead. If necessary, set up your pattern enhancer and we'll beam you
back to my ship.”Soong felt some of his anxiety drain away; he would get out of this place one way or
another, assuming the enhancer survived the fall. Soong began to unsling his pack to see if it was
undamaged, but stopped himself. He only had a little time before the cold totally sapped his strength.
Better to concentrate on the task at hand.
Soong pulled the lamp closer and tried to set it down where he could use the light to inspect his legs, but
the lantern wouldn't stay in an upright position. The ledge was bumpy and irregular, but Soong's attempts
at finding a crack to wedge the lamp into were unsuccessful. Thinking he might chip out a small
depression, Soong unslung his climbing hammer, took aim and swung. The hammer hit hard, but instead
of the satisfyingchink he had expected, all he got was a dullthud. He shone the light onto the ledge, then
bent down to examine the spot where the hammer had struck. The surface of the rock was unscarred.
He looked at his hammer and saw that the blade was dulled by the blow.
What the hell . . . ?
At first, he thought it was some kind of petrified plant root, but looking more closely he saw that it wasn't
a plant at all. Later—much later—he realized that it was the fingers that had confused him. They were
extraordinarily long, almost like they had been melted or softened, then stretched like taffy. The arm and
the upper body, too, seemed freakishly elongated, but it was impossible to say much else about it since
the lower half of the body seemed to be dangling off the other side of the ledge.
Holding the lamp so he could keep an eye on the figure, Soong unslung his pack and began assembling
the enhancer. As he worked, he tapped his comm link again and, as calmly as he could, said, “Dr.
Vaslovik? Ira? On second thought, maybe you should come down here.”
PART ONE
Chapter One
“ ‘IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT . . .’ ”
Commander Bruce Maddox wasn't sure he had heard correctly, so he hauled himself up out of the
maintenance hatch and said, “Excuse me?” He had been looking for a loose connection or a mismatched
isolinear chip,something to explain the power fluctuations, but there was no reason to believe that Emil
was thinking about that, too. Maddox sometimes wondered ifEmil had a loose connection somewhere or
a mismatched . . . well, a mismatchedsomething. Whatever mismatched thing it is that makes a genius
into a genius. And as far as Maddox was concerned, there could be no doubt about it: Emil Vaslovik
was a genius, albeit, occasionally, a veryannoying genius.
People had called Maddox a genius at various times in his career and he had always enjoyed it, but now,
looking back, he wondered if sometimes they had been mentally inserting adjectives before they got to
the noun.What might those adjectives have been? he wondered in a rare moment of introspection. But
then he shook his head and the moment passed.Not relevant to the project, he decided and passed his
tricorder over another set of connections. The word “relevant” featured very largely in Maddox's
vocabulary, which was why Emil Vaslovik's habit of uttering non sequiturs was so galling to him.
“I said, ‘It was a dark and stormy night.’ ”
“I heard you the first time,” Maddox said, resting his back against the console. “But what does it
mean?”
“It doesn'tmean anything,” Vaslovik said, more than a trace of amusement in his voice. “I was just
looking out the window and watching the storm clouds gather. It made me think of the opening line to a
novel calledPaul Clifford. It's rather famous . . . well, infamous, actually.
“ ‘It was a dark and stormy night,’ ” Vaslovik recited. “ ‘The rain fell in torrents—except at occasional
intervals when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London
that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that
struggled against the darkness.’ ” He stopped and regarded Maddox, who had once again pushed
himself up out of the console.
Maddox, who rarely held strong opinions about anything literary, said, “That . . . that'sterrible.”
Vaslovik chuckled. “Leaves a bad taste in your mouth, doesn't it? The author's name was Edward
Bulwer-Lytton. Wrote reams of stuff just like that back in the nineteenth century. Became so famous for
sheer badness that some literary society used to hold a contest in his honor. The object was to compose
the worst opening sentence for a novel.”
Maddox regarded the old man carefully to make sure he wasn't kidding. Vaslovik had a peculiar sense
of humor, but Maddox could see that he wasn't joking about this. “Why would they do that?” Maddox
asked. “What value is there in writing abad sentence?”
Vaslovik shrugged, but his eyes glittered merrily. “Don't really know. It was the twentieth century. Who
knows why they did anything? Self-awareness—or even enlightened self-interest—didn't seem to be part
of their makeup. I expect it just seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Maddox rechecked his tricorder readings, mostly to give himself another minute or two before he had to
crawl back into the bowels of the console. “And this has exactlywhat to do with me being waist-deep in
isolinear chips and EPS conduits?”
“It's a dark and stormy nightdespite the fact that the planet is protected by a weather control grid,”
Vaslovik explained. “Maybe the problem you're trying to track down has nothing to do with anything
inside the lab. Maybe it has something to do with the weather.”
Maddox looked out the window. Vaslovik was right; it was dark despite being almost an hour before
sunset. Like most people who had lived most of their lives on Federation worlds, Maddox was at once
fascinated and intimidated by the idea of areal storm, the kind where lightning and wind could damage
buildings, people and things.
The climate over much of Galor IV was generally quite moderate; it was one of the reasons why the
Daystrom Institute of Technology had situated the Annex there, but violent weather was not entirely
unknown, necessitating the weather control grid. There were too many delicate, intricately planned
experiments taking place at any one time to risk a stray lightning bolt our-turning the figurative apple cart.
But in the past, whenever a storm system large enough to overwhelm the grid came along, the
Environmental Control Center alerted all the labs so that they could take steps to ensure experiments
were shielded.
But,Maddox realized,sooner or later something was bound to get through. Out loud he said, “Well,
this is inconvenient.”
Vaslovik shrugged and said, “But we weren't too far along. We can shut down now and resume when
the storm has passed.”
Maddox set his tricorder down on the windowsill and sighed, “I suppose you're right, but I was hoping
we would be able to complete the tests tonight.”
Suddenly, a bolt of lightning seared across the sky. Vaslovik stumbled back away from the window, but
Maddox caught the old man before he could fall. “Sorry,” Vaslovik said. “That caught me off guard.” A
moment later, a rumble of thunder set the window to vibrating. Another flash of lightning gave Maddox a
momentary glimpse of the wind stripping the leaves from a nearby tree. Something crashed against the
window, bounced off, and rolled away into the darkness.
“Haven't seen one like this before, have you, Bruce?” Vaslovik asked.
“No, I haven't—” Maddox began to reply, but then watched in stunned amazement as a blue-white bolt
of lightning shivered down from the sky and slashed into the ground not ten meters from the lab. Maddox
swore he could feel the ionized oxygen molecules prickling his skin as they swirled away, then rushed
back in. A clap of thunder shattered the air and left Maddox momentarily breathless. Then, a second,
even fiercer explosion tore through the courtyard and Maddox saw a sickening greenish flame leap up
from the ground. He turned his head away and covered his eyes from the intense glare.
When he opened his eyes again, Maddox could see nothing except a red smear, a ghost image on his
retina from the bright flash. “The power's gone out,” he said. “That lightning bolt must have hit the main
grid.” He looked down and saw the tiny lights of the tricorder's control surface. Maddox picked it up,
comforted by its familiarity. The instrument had been programmed to look for surges in microvoltage, the
kind you find with poorly aligned isolinear chips, but the electromagnetic burst from the lightning bolt had
caused it to reset. Maddox tapped the control to run a diagnostic function and, by the light from the
display, saw that Vaslovik had silently moved away from the window toward the center of the lab.
“How did you do that?” Maddox asked.
“Do what?” Vaslovik asked.
“You walked all the way over there without running into anything. I didn't even hear you move.”
“Counted my steps,” Vaslovik said calmly. “Twelve steps from the window to the control console. Six
steps to the experiment chamber. Five steps from there to the door.”
“And how did you know that?”
“I always do that. An old habit.”
Maddox thought,What an eccentric old man, but said, “If that was the substation over by the xenolab,
then power across the quad will be out. We shouldn't expect help anytime soon. Do you think we should
put the experiment back into the prep room?” Maddox heard Vaslovik grunt in agreement, then small
sounds of tinkering. Switches being thrown, latches unlatching.
Vaslovik was working at something very quickly, probably making sure the experiment was fastened
down before they tried to move it. He had been pretty shy about letting anyone see their work before it
was ready, though how the guards were going to make out anything in the dark lab was another question
entirely.
Maddox worried about the old man hurting himself wandering around in the dark, but then decided he
should probably be more concerned about himself.He probably knows how many steps it is to the
prep room, he decided darkly.I'm the one who's going to trip and kill himself.
Maddox started to reply when another lightning flash cut through the dark, and the world suddenly
seemed to come crashing in around him.
Or something very near it. Something beneath the floor of the lab exploded, taking out the entire corner
of the building and sending debris everywhere. Maddox was thrown across the room, and felt his head
slam against something hard. He almost didn't notice the shooting pain in his arm, and the warm wet
feeling that was blossoming over it.
Maddox tried to see, but the gloom seemed absolute. His ears rang, and he could taste blood in his
mouth. He called out to Vaslovik, but couldn't even hear his own voice.
After a time, his eyes adjusted to the dark, and then, finally, he heard something: a dull creaking that rose
quickly to a roar, the sound of a building collapse in the offing. Maddox tried to move, but knew he was
losing it. Everything was going black again, though it was an odd kind of black this time, a black shot
through with silver.
Chapter Two
Captain's Log, Stardate 51405.9: TheEnterprisehas completed its diplomatic assignment to
Tzenketh, in which I believe I have convinced the Autarch to join the Allied effort against the
Dominion. Before we proceed to our next assignment, we are awaiting the return of Lieutenant
Commander Data, who left the ship twelve days ago to undertake a painful personal duty.
CAPTAINJEAN-LUCPICARDlooked up from his log, checked the chronometer and decided that he
had spent enough time in his ready room for one day. Time to get up and walk about a bit, get the feel of
the ship under his feet. A crew had moods and the only way to find out what they are is to go out and
tread the deck. Of course, hecould just call in either Riker or Troi and put the question to them—How is
the crew feeling?—and from their different perspectives form a clear and reliable picture. Over the
years, Picard had learned that this method omitted an essential component. If he stayed in his ready room
and waited for subordinates to bring him answers, the crew wouldn't know howPicard was feeling, or, at
least, how Picardwanted them to think he was feeling.
As soon as Picard walked onto the bridge, Commander Heyes, the current beta shift commander,
hopped to her feet and started to call out, “Captain on the bridge,” but Picard waved her back into the
center seat. Beta shift had just come on duty, some of alpha shift still lingering, passing on notes about
unresolved problems or procedures, so there were quite a few people there. Picard enjoyed being on the
bridge at shift change, especially when things were going well, because it showed that theEnterprise -E
was not just a workplace, but a community. After the essential business of communicating the ship's
condition was addressed, he knew that crewmembers would stop to chat, exchange information about
families or make arrangements for social gatherings and recreation later in the day.
Picard nodded to various officers and crewmen, checked the conn officer's heading, then took a few
moments to study the astrometric display currently on the viewscreen, making it clear to Heyes that he
only intended to stay long enough to take the chill off the cushion and make his presence felt. He moved
briefly to vacant XO's console and pulled up the shift logs, reviewed the entries for high-priority items
and, finding none, transferred the rest to his workstation for more careful scrutiny later. Looking up, he
said, “I'll be heading down to the shuttlebay if you need me, Commander.”
Heyes nodded and said, “Aye, Captain. Commander Data's shuttle is due in seventeen minutes.” She
smiled. “Have a pleasant stroll, sir.”
“Thank you, Commander.” The turbolift doors closed and Picard had to smile to himself. Obviously,
even in her short time aboard theEnterprise, Heyes had learned about her captain's habit of wandering
the decks between shifts. She was a good officer, one of the best shift commanders to come aboard
during their last crew rotation. He knew Heyes was more interested in being on the command track for a
science or exploration vessel, but Picard had asked Riker to try to retain her services for another
rotation, dangling the carrot of some first contact work before her. He would have to have a conversation
with her and remind her that, sometimes, commanders on a larger vessel actually have more time for
science than the captain of a science vessel. On the other hand, Picard understood the allure of the
center seat.We shall see what we shall see, he decided. “Deck four,” he said.
The turbolift stopped at deck three for two crewmen who were so caught up in a discussion about the
mathematics of a multidimensional time/space fold that Picard's presence had barely registered on them
before he stepped off the turbolift on deck four. Acknowledging the nods, Picard moved aft along the
corridor, stopping briefly to speak with Lieutenant Commander Keru about a report he had sent
concerning the holographic diodes in stellar cartography. It was nothing serious yet, Keru assured the
captain, but some of the diodes were past their recommended service date and were losing efficiency.
Picard stayed just long enough to assure Keru he was aware of the situation and that something would be
done soon.
Reaching the end of the corridor, Picard stepped into a narrow maintenance lift and dropped down into
the control room that overlooked the primary shuttlebay. The two crewmen on duty looked up at Picard
and nodded, but didn't rise since they currently had a shuttle on the beam and were guiding it in. In the
bay, Picard could see four figures: his first officer, Commander William Riker; the ship's counselor,
Commander Deanna Troi; the chief engineer, Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge; and the
Enterprise 's new security chief, Lieutenant Rhea McAdams.
Now there,Picard reflected,is someone I will probably nothave to remind Number One to speak to
about staying with the Enterprise. During the two social encounters Picard had enjoyed with McAdams
while Riker was present, it had been quite obvious that his first officer was quite taken with the lieutenant.
Like Heyes and several other recent additions, the pretty, deceptively petite McAdams had joined the
ship just ten days ago during the crew rotation at Starbase 105. The lieutenant was the third security
officer who had rotated onto theEnterprise -E since the ship had left the San Francisco Yards two years
earlier. The first, Daniels, was currently on indefinite paternity leave. The second, Rowan, had been a fine
officer, but, somehow, had not jelled with the rest of the command crew. It might have been, Picard
decided, that he had been toomuch like Worf, who had been part of his senior staff for seven years on
theEnterprise -D. The similarities in style had thrown everyone off-balance. Rhea McAdams was about
as unlike Picard's former security chief as it was possible for an entity with two arms, two legs and a head
to be. Where Worf would have growled, McAdams grinned.
Picard had first realized that he might have found the right fit when, during her first week on duty, the
Enterprise had encountered a Breen destroyer whose commander was spoiling for a fight. Where Worf
would have had his finger on the quantum torpedo launcher from the first second, McAdams had opted
to explain to the Breen commander, one Thot Vog, the relative strengths and weaknesses of the
Sovereign -class starship and the Breen destroyer, paying particular attention to how much damage a
brace of quantum torpedoes could do. In the end, the Breen had backed off.
Picard stayed in the control room long enough to be sure that all was well with Data's shuttle, then exited
and walked down the stairway to the flight deck. La Forge spotted him first and called out, “Captain,
hello.” Troi, in the midst of a conversation with McAdams, smiled brightly. Deanna looked, Picard
thought, uncharacteristically bleary, probably because she was currently pulling duty as officer of the
watch on gamma shift. Riker stood slightly apart from the group, staring out at the field of stars
shimmering faintly through the hangar's force field. Picard noted that Riker had his head tilted slightly
toward Troi and McAdams, just enough to hear if his name came up in the course of their conversation.
Riker nodded to Picard as the captain approached, and Picard noticed a small bandage on the left side
of Riker's forehead. “Number One,” Picard asked, frowning as he peered at the bandage. “What have
you done to yourself this time?”
Riker's eyes shot up and his hand rose to his temple, almost as if he had forgotten the wound and only
this moment remembered it. “Oh . . . this? It's nothing, Captain.”
“Let me guess: some sort of bar brawl?”
“Captain!” Riker replied in mock indignation.
“Then, what? Anbo-jytsu? Karate?”
“Mok'bara,by any chance?” Lieutenant McAdams asked. Grinning, she stepped toward Commander
Riker and took his arm, a movement that Picard initially interpreted as a sign of affection, but then he saw
that McAdams was applying a slight pressure to Riker's elbow so he would have to bend forward.
Standing on her toes, McAdams carefully inspected Riker's forehead with all the concern of a worried
mother checking a child's skinned knee. “Are you feeling better, Commander?” she asked.
“Yes,” Riker said resignedly. “Much better, thanks.”
摘要:

ThisoneisforKatie.Forever.Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,placesandincidentsareproductsoftheauthor'simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualeventsorlocalesorpersonslivingordeadisentirelycoincidental.AnOriginalPublicationofPOCKETBOOKSCopyright©2002byParamountPictures.AllRight...

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