STAR TREK - TNG - Q-Squared

Peter David - Star Trek - Q-Squared

1.

"Jean-Luc... there's something I've been wanting to tell you." Picard put down the book of Shakespeare

sonnets he'd been skimming and leaned back in his chair, eyebrow raised in curiosity.

Crusher stood in the doorway, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other and looking more

apprehensive than at any time Picard could recall.

"Problem?" asked Picard. He gestured to the chair opposite the desk. "If there's anything I can do to

help, you know I will." "Thank you, Jean-Luc. It's good to know that, in times of stress, there are friends

I can count on." Crusher crossed quickly and sat down, ramrod straight... but, a moment later, was up

and pacing. Picard sat patiently, not rushing his longtime friend and associate. Then Crusher stopped,

faced Picard, and said, "A woman is coming aboard the Enterprise whose presence is going to make me

extremely uncomfortable." "Former lover?" asked Picard.

"Ohhh yes," said Crusher. "Yes, she certainly was that. And I hate to say it, but even now when I think

about her, she makes me..." Picard waited, but then prompted, "Nostalgic?" "Itchy, actually," Crusher

said sheepishly.

"Silly, isn't it? After all this time?" "So who is it?" asked Picard.

"Natalie?" "No, not Natalie." "Amanda, then. Or Lucy perhaps? Don't tell me it's Lucy; she came after

me, you know, after you two broke it off. The woman was... determined, shall we say." "Actually,

"legendary"' is probably the more accurate term," said Crusher.

""Legendary"' is not too bad a term to ascribe to yourself, actually," Picard said, smiling. "You've had a

formidable number of amorous encounters in the years since you broke up with..." Then he understood,

for Picard didn't even have to say the name. The merest oblique reference was enough to take Crusher's

face and taint it with a layer of pain.

"Beverly," said Picard.

Crusher nodded.

Picard considered his next ^ws carefully. not that he was one to toss off utterances rashly under any

circumstance. One did not, after all, become the first officer on the Fleet's flagship without making a habit

of proceeding with caution. Rather than addressing the obvious emotional pitfalls immediately, he opted

to approach the matter slowly.

He asked what was, really, the least important question he could come up with. "When did this happen?"

he asked.

"The assignment came in late last night.

I've been spending much of the night stewing over it.

I'm going to be a delight on the bridge this morning, I can promise you that." Picard smiled

sympathetically. "I have every confidence in you, Captain." Crusher laughed softly. "I wish I did.

You're not to quote me on that, of course. If anyone ever asks you, I am the apostle of aplomb." "Those

very ^ws have been used to describe you on any number of occasions." Picard felt a measure of relief.

At least Crusher seemed to be regarding the situation with a degree of gallows humor... which was

preferable, certainly, to deep depression. Now, though, was the time to move forward. To explore just

how in the hell this situation had come about. "What position will Beverly... is it still "Crusher"'...?" The

captain shook his head. "No. She went back to "Howard"' after we split up." "All right. What position

will Dr. Howard be assuming on our fair vessel?" Crusher smiled thinly. "CMO, of course.

Nothing but the best for my ex." Picard was not successful in dissembling his lack of enthusiasm for that

piece of news. "Jack... I don't know if that's such a good idea.

The chief medical officer and a starship captain... they have a special relationship on a vessel. They have

to work smoothly together. They have to be a team. When you and Beverly split, it was not on the

happiest of terms...." "You're telling me?" Jack Crusher tried not to laugh. "I was there, Jean-Luc,

remember?" "We were both there, Jack." "I know, I know." Crusher endeavored to sit, but the closest

he came was leaning on the back of the chair.

"Does Beverly know you're in command of the Enterprise?" asked Picard. "We're newly commissioned,

after all. Only been in space a few weeks. It's possible..." "No, it's not possible," said Crusher, shaking

his head. "You don't seriously believe that Beverly would take an assignment without knowing who her

CO is going to be, do you?" "Not the Beverly I remember, no," admitted Picard. "But why would she

accept the assignment, then, knowing that you're here?" "Are you kidding?" said Crusher. His face was

round, the additional years having added a few pounds to his previously square-jawed face.

His once-thick brown hair was seriously thinning on top and graying at the sides, a condition that elicited

absolutely no sympathy from Picard. "This is the Enterprise... the prestige and the history that's attached

to that name. what reasonable officer could pass that up?" "I certainly could not have," agreed Picard.

And then he added a bit ruefully, "Not that I had many options..." Crusher sucked in air between his

teeth, a long-standing habit when confronted with unpleasant truths. "Do we really want to go down that

road again, Number One?" "No, of course not," said Picard. "We were speaking of your problems, not

mine." He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, and was only partly successful. Mentally he chided

himself. With all the practice he'd had at trying to control his frustration over his career track, one would

think that he'd be more accomplished at bottling his feelings by now.

If Crusher picked up on Picard's tone of voice, he did not let on. "My problems, Jean-Luc, are your

problems," said Crusher.

"I'm a big believer in the pass-along theory of aggravation." He let that sink in, and then continued, "Now,

as we've already made painfully clear, Beverly would have to be crazy to turn down the position of chief

medical officer on the Enterprise. My loving ex-wife may be many things, but crazy she most definitely is

not.

Another thing that she is "n"' is afraid of confrontations. And if the only impediment to her taking a

position is that it might bring her friction from her superior officer, then I assure you, Picard, that's no

impediment at all." "She's not on the ship yet, however," Picard pointed out after a moment.

"You're right, Jean-Luc," said Crusher in wonderment, as if the thought had not occurred to him.

He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "We'll tell the whole crew to hide. When she comes

aboard, she'll find no one here, and then maybe she'll leave." Crusher maintained such a deadpan

expression as he spoke that it was all Picard could do not to laugh. "You know what I mean." "Yes, I

know precisely what you mean," said Crusher. "You mean that, as captain of the Enterprise, I could

block her appointment to this vessel. Raise a fuss, and there's no way that Starfleet will ram her down my

throat." "Correct." "Yeah, well, there's two problems with that.

First, I don't want to be that petty. And second, the simple fact is that Beverly Howard is the best person

for the job.

Period. Her record is outstanding and unblemished. This ship, this crew, deserves the best, and I'll be

damned if I let my personal history stand in the way of this crew's best interests." "That's very noble of

you, Captain." "Like hell. I just don't want to put myself in the position of taking on a CMO who's not the

best. Because the very first time a crewman dies, I'll start second-guessing myself that maybe Beverly

could have made a difference. Wouldn't matter if God himself came down, looked at the dying crewman,

and said, "Sorry... nothing I can do to help, I'm afraid."' I'd still be thinking, "Damn... should have had

Beverly aboard."'" "That's quite a lot of expectations to put on the woman's shoulders." "She has broad

enough shoulders. She can handle it." "Yes, but can you?" "Guess I'll have to." Crusher rose from the

chair and started for the door, when Picard said, "If I might make an offer, Captain...?" He turned.

"Yes?" "I would be perfectly happy to... run interference, for lack of a better way to put it.

I'll handle most of the interfacing between commander and medical." "Are you implying that I can't handle

her, Picard?" "Not at all. I am saying, however, that no captain can handle everything. And if you should

choose to delegate this responsibility to me, I would be more than happy to assume it." When Crusher

did not reply immediately, Picard noted, "Might I point out, Captain, that you were considerate enough to

honor my request that I not deal directly with the children aboard the ship. I made my concerns plain to

you. You said you understood, and were perfectly comfortable with assuming that responsibility yourself.

I see this as simply returning the favor." Crusher nodded slowly. "I suppose you've got a valid enough

point there. All right, Number One. I don't want to be percvd as hiding in my ready room, of course. If

our soon-to-be chief medical officer wishes to meet with me at any time, she is of course welcome to do

so. You are not to interfere in that regard. But for simple day-to-day interaction" --he gestured

expansively--?she's all yours." "Whatever you say, sir." Crusher gave it a moment's more thought and

then said, "You know... actually, we're not completely even. After all, there's a bunch of kids. There's

only one Beverly Howard." "Quite true," agreed Picard readily.

"There's only one Beverly."

TRACK A 2.

Selan looked up from the latest set of test results and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thick fingers.

He glanced out the narrow window that was the sole source of exterior light in his small, cramped office.

The sun was starting to set, and it would be night within several hours. The angle of the light highlighted a

thin haze of dust motes dancing in the glare. The walls of the office were a depressing shade of brown,

and Selan made a mental note... once again... to repaint the place before it drove him into a fit of deep

depression.

Then he stood and stretched, mildly annoyed that he was feeling creaks and aches in his muscles that he

would not once have felt before. It was annoying to him. He kept himself in good shape, and took pride

in himself. Nor was he all that old.

Barely middle-aged, in fact, for a Romulan.

Perhaps it was the coolness. It was a brisk day on Rombus III, positively nippy at seventy-eight degrees

Fahrenheit. Selan clapped his hands together, rubbed them smartly.

Poor blood circulation. That was it. He felt only the faintest tingling in his fingers.

Maybe he was due for a checkup.

Rombus III certainly had the facilities for it. In terms of medical technology, there was no place better.

Selan was very aware of that, considering that he had been the one who had set it up and managed it all

these years.

One of his aides entered, a rod-thin Cardassian. Selan looked up and nodded his head in

acknowledgment. "Good evening to you, Turo.

It promises to be cool tonight." "Good," said Turo. The weather was something of an ongoing debate

between the two of them: Where the Romulan was at his most comfortable, Turo felt ill at ease, and vice

versa. Poor luck on the part of Romulan and Cardassian metabolisms.

Divided as they were by such things as climate, however, they did at least share one thing: A fascination

with pain.

Not their own, of course. That would be sick. That would be inappropriate. No, what intrigued them was

the pain of others.

Turo was carrying a computer padd, and he glanced at it for reference. "I understand that we lost

Subject Twenty-two today." "Yes," sighed Selan. "I'm afraid so.

A pity, really. I feel that she was capable of enduring so much more, but she simply gave up." He rose

from his chair and clapped a hand on Turo's shoulder. "That is what I find to be so intriguing about the

many species we study here, my friend: the great variety in terms of personal determination." Turo smiled

thinly. "You misspeak, Selan. You make a false assumption.

Kindly do not address me as "my friend."' I am not your friend. [ we not thrust together through the

mutual bond of our governments, I doubt seriously I would be speaking to you at all. At most, we share a

mutual taste for the distasteful.

Do not make more out of it than it is." "Forthright as always. You might want to consider, from time to

time, the notion of tact." The Cardassian cocked his head. "Why?" Selan laughed once, curtly, almost like

a bark. Then he looked back at his computer screen, and tapped it. "I think," he said slowly, "it's time to

turn our attention back to good old Number Eight." "You think so?" "I believe he's healed enough from

our last experiments," Selan said thoughtfully. "His endurance is remarkable, wouldn't you say?" "For a

human? Nothing short of amazing." He regarded Selan with curiosity. "What is it about humans that you

find so fascinating, anyway?" "I am a student of all biologies," said Selan almost regally. Then he paused

and nodded.

"Still, I must admit, Terrans do hold a certain allure for me. Did I ever tell you about the first ones I

encountered?" "No," said Turo. "When was this?" Selan leaned against the desk, crossing his legs at the

ankles. "You've heard of Narendra Three, I presume?" Turo frowned for a moment, the name clearly

familiar. Then it clicked into place for him.

"Of course. A Klingon outpost, wasn't it?" "That's right. Or at least, so the Klingons claimed when they

established it over twenty years ago." Selan made a twisted face that showed very clear just how

contemptuously he held that claim, even after all the time that had passed. "The fact was that it was

established purely for the strategic purpose of being able to spy in through the Neutral Zone. Oh, the

Klingons maintained their innocence in the matter, of course. Klingons excel at prevarication. But we

knew what their intentions were. It was a slap in the face to the Romulan Empire. Well, naturally we had

no choice but to retaliate." "Naturally," said Turo, when Selan paused long enough to make clear that he

expected some sort of affirmation. "Clearly they were testing you.

Any other action would have been percvd as a sign of weakness." "There, you see?" Selan slapped his

thigh.

"You understand! What a remarkable race you Cardassians are. So... we attacked them, as we clearly

were justified to do. We did them quite a serious bit of damage, too... until we were interrupted by a

Federation starship.

Ambassador class, what was the name...?" He searched his memory. "Oh yes.

Enterprise. Our forces..." "You were there, then?" asked Turo.

"Merely as an observer," said Selan. "I was part of the Emperor's personal staff, and was frequently

present at such major maneuvers.

As I was saying, our forces destroyed the ship rather handily, although the vessel put up a tremendous

struggle. So much so, in fact, that its performance hastened the alliance between the Klingons and the

damned Federation. That was the downside of the escapade. The upside was, as I said, we did

considerable damage to the Klingons. And, furthermore, we did end up capturing a group of the Terrans

who had been crew members aboard the Enterprise.

There was a feisty group, let me tell you. I found them truly fascinating." "In what respect?" asked Turo.

Selan leaned forward, stroking his lower lip thoughtfully. "In terms of sheer physical makeup, Terrans are

a rather pathetic lot.

Soft epidermis. Bones that break under minimal pressure. Rickety circulatory system with vastly

insufficient built-in redundancies.

Average physical strength substantially less than norm." "I know." Turo was shaking his head. "All things

considered, it is wondrous that they accomplished as much as they have." "My thoughts precisely. I found

them--at least, the first ones I was exposed to--ffbe driven by an almost indomitable will. A will that

seems to transcend their many frailties. It might be a sort of evolutionary means of making up for

everything they lack." Selan then headed for the door, and Turo fell into step behind him. They exited the

office and walked across the small compound. "The Emperor shared my interest, and was very

supportive when I broached the idea of setting up this facility to study the physical and ethical limits of

various species in general and humans in specific.

The captives from the Enterprise are long gone, of course. But the Emperor has been most generous in

keeping me supplied with a steady stream of subjects. Number Eight, though, has been absolutely

exceptional." "Exceptional?" Turo laughed derisively. "Phenomenal is more like it. I swear I don't know

what keeps him going.

He's been here, what, four years now?" Selan shook his head. "Six, actually.

Almost seven." Turo whistled. "Is there anything left to him?" "That's the amazing thing about this one,"

said Selan. As they walked, their booted feet sent up small clouds of dust. Selan nodded in

acknowledgment to other scientists passing by him.

"He has reserves of inner strength that are unmatched. I don't think he remembers who he is anymore, or

what he was like before he came here. All of that has been stripped away from him, and instead he's

focused on one thing and one thing only: survival. Focused on it, in fact, to the exclusion of all else. I

doubt he recalls why he wants to live, but it's become such an imperative that it is all he dwells on. I look

in his eyes and all I see burning in them is pure, naked determination." Suddenly Turo placed a hand

against Selan's chest, stopping him in his tracks.

Clearly a thought had struck him, and Selan waited for it to work its way to the Cardassian's mouth.

"How far would he go to survive?" asked Turo.

"Could you be a bit more specific?" "Was he a man of high moral character when he came here?" asked

Turo.

"Very much so, yes." "Is he still?" "I don't know," confessed Selan. "My specialty is survival instinct and

the amount of endurance various life-forms have in regard to--" "Yes, yes." Turo waved impatiently.

"But what about the more subtle aspects of moral behavior?" "I'm a scientist, not a philosopher." "Well,"

said Turo with an air of mischief in his voice, "do you not think that expanding one's horizons is a laudable

goal? Hmmm?" Selan gave the matter some thought, and then said, "What precisely did you have in

mind...?"

Prisoner Number Eight dwelled in darkness. Darkness of the room, of the soul.

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, there had been light. He was sure of that. He could not recall the

details of it so much as the sensation.

Buried deep, deep within him was the knowledge that there had been a period where he was so much

more than he was now.

Now there was no light, but only fire. Fire burning in the pit of his stomach, fire behind his eyes, fire in his

mind. Fire that seared him and drove him forward even when every other instinct screamed for surcease.

He was covered in his own filth, for they had never provided him water with which to bathe. He stank.

His hair and beard were long and matted, his fingernails ragged from his having bitten them off. He was

clothed only in the tattered remains of a uniform that had once meant a great deal to him.

The wounds from the last beating had all but healed.

Plus the pain from the previous week's electrodes had faded completely. They had clamped the leads all

over him, to his fingers, to his chest, to his genitals, and then they had sent electricity ripping through him.

His screams were so deafening that it seemed at the time as if they must have been coming from a source

outside of himself. A place very far away, where some poor devil was suffering terribly, and wasn't it a

pity that there was nothing, simply nothing, that he could do about it.

By the time he realized that the screams were issuing from his own mouth, they had already finished with

him and tossed him back into his cell like a bag of garbage. And all the time, all the time, the gray-haired

man with the pointed ears had been jotting down notes and no.ing his head and saying, in his alien tongue,

things like "Impressive" and "Very good" and "Yes." How odd. Here he was being complimented.

Usually compliments were a positive thing that made one feel good about oneself. But the man in

darkness didn't feel good. No, not good at all.

Then his nostrils twitched. Ferally, they scrutinized the air, for something had flickered past them ever so

tantalizingly, and he.

Yes. Yes, there it was again, stronger this time.

It was approaching his cell, and it was an aroma that stirred primal memories.

The smell of cooked meat.

He was too far gone to recall the last time he'd sat down to a thick steak, the juice flowing out of it at the

first pass of the knife. At best, the smell was harkening to something as basic as his prehistoric ancestors,

grouped around a fire and cooking the meat (which was a novel idea as opposed to just eating it, raw

and dripping, off the bones of the newly deceased animal carcass. and even that wouldn't have seemed

too shabby a concept. Not in the dark man's current state of mind, if such a ^w as "mind" could be

reasonably attributed to so pathetic a creature).

Cooked meat. He could not recall the last time he'd eaten anything other than simple, meager sustenance.

The door opened, and the smell that wafted through almost drove him mad.

And then something was shoved in.

It was a woman.

He was not appalled by her appearance. He was beyond caring about such things. She was skin and

bones, a shredded green dress barely covering her nakedness.

She did not, however, have the look in her eyes that he carried in his. She gazed up at him, and his stare

almost devoured her. All that her eyes said to him was End it end it enditenditendit.

From just beyond the doorway, the Romulan was staring in at him. The Cardassian was just behind him.

In the Romulan's right hand, he was holding a force prod that could easily drive Number Eight back if he

decided to try anything. In his left hand was a plate, and on the plate was the source of the aroma that

was driving Number Eight even madder than he already was.

"I have a treat for you," said the Romulan.

"It's out of respect for you, Number Eight.

Out of respect and consideration for your remarkable durability. This meat, cooked to your..." He

wrinkled his nose slightly. his... taste. You merely have to do one thing in order to get it." The dark man's

eyes narrowed.

The Cardassian pulled a knife out of his belt and tossed it across the floor. It landed several feet away

from the dark man and skidded, coming to rest right in front of him.

"Kill her," said the Romulan.

Number Eight's gaze flickered from the Romulan to the knife to the woman and back to the Romulan

again.

The woman gave no reaction at all to the Romulan's request for her death. It didn't seem to matter to her

particularly.

Still Number Eight didn't move.

"She won't give you any trouble, I assure you," said the Romulan softly. "She doesn't have the stamina or

the interest. In fact, I daresay you'll be doing both of yourselves a favor." Slowly the dark man picked up

the knife.

He was still in his crouch on the far side of the room.

He held it up, staring at the blade. It was shining, glittering in the dimness of the chamber.

Outside, night was falling.

So were guards. Falling quietly, unobtrusively. Fingers coming from the darkness, swords flashing. Cries

were cut off before they could develop into full-throated alarms.

Through the darkness moved deadly figures dressed in black.

Selan wanted to step back outside the door and reactivate the forcefield, just to play it safe. But Turo

was blocking the way, craning his neck and trying to see clearly in the darkness. The stench in the room

was oppressive, and Selan made a mental note to have it washed out.

Number Eight was hunched at the far end of the room, and he had just picked up the knife. He was

staring at it thoughtfully. He regarded the woman. She was nothing to him. Hell, she wasn't even a Terran;

she was a Bajoran, named Kara or something like that. There was no reason for any sort of loyalty on his

part.

The only thing that might stop him was a sense of ethics. Of morals. Killing a woman, or anyone for that

matter, just to get some food. once upon a time, it was nothing that the pathetic creature known as

Number Eight would ever have thought himself capable of.

But that was a long time and many torturous sessions ago.

She wasn't moving.

Neither was he.

Damned if Turo hadn't been correct.

It was stimulating to see whether or not Number Eight would throw off his ethical training. Selan found

himself holding his breath, fascinated to see how the scenario would play out.

Number Eight moved.

Like a panther, he vaulted across the space between himself and the Bajoran woman. He knocked her

back and she went down without the slightest noise.

Her head thudded on the hard floor, her arms fell listlessly to her side. The dark man was over her, the

knife poised to strike.

He brought the knife down across her throat and made a swift slicing gesture.

Turo leaned forward farther, anxious to see the first jet of Bajoran blood splatter on the floor.

This was a mistake... one of two that would be made within the next sixty seconds.

For the dark man had suddenly flipped the knife around, and there was barely time for it to register on

Turo that Subject Number Eight was holding the knife by the blade, which was a pretty inefficient way to

cut someone's throat, and just where was the blood anyway?

And then the subject's arm was a blur, and Turo felt a sudden pressure against his head. That was when

he thought, Oh, I see the blood now, except it wasn't coming from the Bajoran woman. In fact, she

seemed in fairly good health, all things considered, and she was twisting her head to look around and

clearly her throat had not, in fact, been cut.

But where's the blood coming from then? Turo was wondering, and then it dawned on him that it was, in

fact, coming from higher up on his head. He turned to see a horrified--and yet fascinated-- expression on

Selan's face, and then Turo reached up and touched the st-quivering hilt of the blade which was now

solidly embedded in his forehead.

He looked in wonderment at Number Eight --the starved, desperate, pathetic wretch--and to his surprise

all he could think of to say was "Good throw!" At least that was what he tried to say, but it came out

more as "Nychhhhhohhhh," and then Turo pitched forward, dead before he quite made it to the floor.

His face twisted in fury, Selan jacked up the power on his force prod and took a step forward, his every

instinct being to punish Number Eight for this hideous transgression.

That was the other mistake.

Number Eight charged forward with an animal growl, and the only thing that stopped him from getting his

hands around Selan's neck was that he tripped over the outstretched arm of the Bajoran woman.

The stumble was a brief one, but it was enough for Selan to stab forward with the prod, filling the dark

man with enough of a charge to, at the very least, dispatch him into unconsciousness. Indeed, depending

on the subject's condition, it might even have stopped his heart.

It sent the dark man to one knee.

That was it.

That was all.

And then a deranged howl ripped from the throat of Number Eight, and Selan suddenly realized that after

all this time, all these years, he had finally found a boundary that he should not have crossed. For waiting

for him on the other side of that border was a creature that harkened more to the days when man was a

brute of pure, unreasoning emotion and instinct.

And every instinct, Selan immediately understood, was focused on getting hands or teeth or something

around Selan's throat and pulling or ripping or squeezing or doing whatever it took to make sure that the

Romulan was dead.

Selan backed up.

The dark man moved. He vaulted clear of the Bajoran woman and came in fast.

The Romulan was through the door and reached quickly to activate the forcefield. It flared to life just as

Number Eight reached it, and he was caught in the arc. Energy from the forcefield pounded through him,

trying to drive him back. But year upon year of torture had elevated the dark man's threshold of pain to

levels he would never have dreamed possible.

Against all instinct, against all odds, he managed to drive a step forward even as he felt his brain starting

to close down. But he overrode the urge to slip into unconsciousness, and then there was a second step,

muscles refusing to yield, and then a third step, and this one was the hardest because it was dragging

through the rest of his body.

Then he was past the forcefield door, his breath ragged and forced, his heart racing. But he was past.

He tried to get up.

He could not.

Nothing was working. His overtaxed nervous system had simply shut off. He ordered his arms to push

him forward, his legs to bring him to standing. Neither occurred. Instead he fell forward, slamming his

face into the floor. He didn't feel the pain.

He didn't feel anything except a surge of fury at his helplessness.

Selan sagged against a wall, and shouted, "Guards! Guards! In here, quickly!" He waited for the

pounding of feet, but there was nothing. Where the hell.was everyone?

Devil take it. He'd do it himself.

"Number Eight," he said coldly to the spasmodically twitching body on the floor, "I am sad to say that

you have proven yourself to be a hopeless subject. I am afraid I shall have to terminate you." He twisted

the rod to its maximum power. Stop Number Eight? At this setting, it could likely have blown a hole

through the wall. "It is nothing personal, you understand.

Believe it or not, I will very much miss you. You were a magnificent subject." He jabbed forward toward

the helpless Terran, and the dark man did nothing to block it.

That did not stop it from being blocked.

A blade, long and lethal, had swooped in and deflected the blow. The prod sent a charge through the

blade, but the handle was insulated and the wielder was unharmed.

Selan turned and faced the new opponent, and he felt the blood drain from his face.

It was a Klingon.

STAR TREK - TNG - Q-Squared

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