"Exactly right," Crusher confirmed. "I've asked our away teams to obtain information on the genetic makeup of the transformed. With any luck, they'll be bringing it back to me in the next several hours."
Xavier placed his forefinger against his temple. "And you expect a mere simulacrum-a collection of projected images and electromagnetic fields-to be helpful in this regard?"
"That depends," she said.
He tilted his head slightly. "On what?"
"On whether you're as good as they say you are."
For a second or two, the professor seemed to ponder her remark, examining it from one angle and then another. Finally, he spoke.
"I'm ready when you are," he told her.
As Data regained his senses and opened his eyes, he had one thought: Nightcrawler.
The last time he had seen the mutant, his fuzzy, blue head had been encased in a solid piece of crystal, which was preventing him from drawing a life-sustaining breath. If Nightcrawler had remained in such a condition for more than a few minutes, he had surely suffered brain death.
Leaping to his feet, the android scanned the room in which he found himself. It was tiny-more like a large closet, actually, a wan sliver of light coming through under its door. And he was alone, though his supersensitive hearing could pick up the sounds of not-so-distant battle.
Obviously, he was still in the building where he had lost consciousness. And ifthe fight outside was still going on, hardly any time could have elapsed. Unfortunately, his internal chronometer couldn't shed any light on that question; the electrical charge he had sustained had caused it to stop functioning temporarily.
In fact, all of him had stopped functioning. But as far as Data could tell, he was back in working order again.
Finding the door, he didn't bother to determine if it was locked. He simply straight-armed it and walked outside, ready for anything.
A couple of transformed whirled at the sight of him. One was the young woman who had shocked him into insensibility; however, the android didn't give her the chance this time. He crossed the room with inhuman quickness and administered a nerve pinch he had learned years earlier.
The Xhaldian collapsed in his arms, providing a fortuitous shield against the powers of her companion. It was just as well, considering Data didn't know what the other transformed was capable of.
Whatever his abilities, he must not have considered them equal to the task. Instead of going after the android, he turned and ran into the next room, shouting a warning.
"The other one's awake!" he roared.
Relying on the element of surprise, Data burst into the room-the same one he and Nightcrawler had teleported into earlier. The transformed whirled, looking cornered and determined to defend themselves.
The mutant was there as well, lying against a wall in a pool of shadows. The crystal casing was gone from his head, but his eyes were closed and he wasn't moving.
The android moved to his comrade's side and checked his pulse. It was weak but detectable, and he was breathing on his own-a good sign. Still, he guessed Nightcrawler had been subjected to more than a lack of oxygen.
As Data got to his feet, one of the transformed pointed at him. "Stay where you are!" he warned him, "or we'll do to you what we did to your friend!"
The android shook his head sadly. "I tried to tell you before ... we are not your enemies. In fact, we may be your only prospect of salvation."
"Don't listen to him," one of the transformed told the others.
Data turned to him. Unlike some of the youths, this one looked like any normal Xhaldian.
"Once our guards are down," the transformed went on, "he'll turn us over to the aliens! Do we want that?"
His companions answered him with a resounding; "No!"
The android held his hands out and moved out of the shadows. "Why do you mistrust me so? Can you not see that I am like you?"
The transformed looked at him askance. "You're nothing like us," one of them railed.
"Nor am I like anyone else," Data replied evenly. "In fact, I am unlike any other creature in the entire galaxy."
He pushed up his uniform sleeve and opened the access compartment in his forearm. The display of circuitry inside him brought a gasp of surprise from the transformed.
"You see?" the android asked them. "I am like you. I am different. And because of that, I have been treated unfairly on occasion. I have even been ignored, which is sometimes worse than being treated unfairly. But despite everything, I still trust."
Having demonstrated his artificial nature, he closed the compartment in his arm and pulled his sleeve down. The transformed looked at him, still wary but apparently willing to hear him out.
Data looked down at Nightcrawler. "He, too, is different. On his world, he is shunned and even feared merely because he does not look and act the way normal people do."
"Would you do to Nightcrawler what others have done to him? What others have done to you?" the android asked. "Would you shun him and fear him without cause, simply because he is unfamiliar to you? Because he is ... different?"
The Xhaldians looked at one another. There was no pride in their expressions, no righteous anger. There was only regret.
"If you were going to trust someone," Data continued, "would you not trust someone who had experienced what you are experiencing now? Someone like myself, perhaps ... or Nightcrawler here?"
He had barely finished speaking when one of the transformed-a tall, almost gangly young man-got up and went over to the mutant. Bending down, he touched Nightcrawler on the shoulder. Then he looked up at the android.
"It was a toxin," he said, by way of an explanation. "I make them. It kept him quiet."
"I see," Data responded. "And now you have neutralized it?"
The youth nodded. "He'll be all right in a moment or two."
His prediction was an accurate one. Within seconds, the mutant began to stir, then blink and sit up. He looked around wonderingly-first at Data and then at the transformed.
"Unh ... ?" he began. Then he must have remembered, because he felt his face. "That crystal thing ..."
"Is gone," the android assured him. "So are the toxins that kept you unconscious."
Nightcrawler digested the information, then glanced at the transformed. "You've convinced them we're not the enemy, obviously."
Data considered the Xhaldians. "I believe I have," he agreed.
"Tell us what you want us to do," said the youth who had been guarding the android in the other room.
"Just revive your friend-the one who was able to disable me with her electrical powers," Data advised him. "After that, Nightcrawler and I will do all the work. If all goes as we hope it will, you'll be somewhere safe in a matter of a few minutes."
"I'll go get her," the transformed responded.
As the youth left the room, the mutant placed his hand on the android's shoulder. "Good going, my friend. But what did you tell them?"
Data shrugged. "The truth."
Chapter Twenty-seven.
"IT IS NOT going well," Isadjo muttered.
Ettojh, his second-in-command, slid his eyes toward him. "Did you say something, High Implementor?"
Isadjo considered his scanplate. He could see the Enterprise hanging in space against a backdrop of stars, no less a spikefly in his fleshfolds than when it arrived.
And yet, this spikefly-this mere annoyance, as it had seemed at first-had wrought havoc with his mission. And if it continued to do so, his faction's long-cherished hope of preeminence would die stillborn-a galling prospect, but one the Implementor couldn't ignore.
"It is not going well," Isadjo repeated, this time with more venom in his voice. "We have yet to complete our repairs, Ettojh. And the harvesting parties should have been on their way back by now."
"No doubt," said his second-in-command, "the teams from the Enterprise are impeding their efforts."
"Or stopping them altogether," Isadjo noted. "One thing is certain-we cannot give them much more time. Not when Captain Picard has no doubt sent for reinforcements, which could arrive at any moment-and discover what we created on Xhaldia."
His second's gill-flaps fluttered uncomfortably. "The harvest has been so long anticipated, Implementor ..."
Isadjo whirled on him, baring his several rows of teeth. "You think I don't know that, Ettojh? You think I don't feel the shame of-"
He stopped short of admitting his failure out loud. But clearly, that was what it was turning out to be-a failure. And yet, were there not degrees of failure? Degrees of shame?
If Picard's people had an opportunity to study the Xhaldians who had been transformed, they might be able to create a harvest of their own-which would make them a much more formidable enemy in the future. The Implementor couldn't allow that to happen; one never knew where the homeworld would turn for its next conquest.
"Our path is clear," he told Ettojh. "If our soldiers cannot bring in the harvest, we will have to make certain no one else receives it either."
His second didn't answer. He just made a sound of obedience in his cranial cavities and awaited Isadjo's orders.
Turning to his scanplate again, the Implementor wished he could reach out and crush the Enterprise in his big, leathery fist. But as long as the Connharakt's propulsion systems were in disrepair, he couldn't mount any kind of offensive whatsoever.
Isadjo's mouth twisted. "This is what we will do ..." he began.
Picard was standing in front of his command center, eyeing the Draa'kon vessel as if that alone would turn it to dust.
Behind him, at one of the stations rendered unusable by the Draa'kon attack, Archangel was no doubt regarding the Connharakt as well. He seemed even fitter than the captain had expected after his conversation with Dr. Crusher. In fact, one would scarcely guess what sort of injuries the mutant had sustained. However, if he had any "insights" regarding his teammates, he had yet to share them with anyone.
Picard sighed. He should have known Archangel's presence would be less than productive. The man was reckless, irresponsible- Suddenly, Ensign Suttles called out his name.
Picard glanced at the tactical officer, who had taken over in Sovar's absence. "Yes, Mr. Suttles?"
"Sir, the Draa'kon are powering up another hull port. But it doesn't seem to be a directed-energy device."
The captain returned his attention to the screen. If the enemy wasn't bringing another weapon to bear, what were they doing?
Suddenly, he got his answer-as a cluster of linked black spheres shot out from the Connharakt and headed for Xhaldia. "What is that?" he asked.
"Scanning," said Suttles. "Sir, it's some kind of explosive device." He tapped out a command and read another monitor. "It's headed for-"
Picard knew the answer even before the ensign uttered it.
"-Verdeen!" Suttles gasped.
The captain cursed himself for not having seen it in advance. With the transformed denied to the Draa'kon, the aggressors had decided no one else would have the uniquely talented youths either.
Of course, the enemy's directed-energy weapons couldn't penetrate the planet's energy barrier. So they had to try a different tack-an explosive device powerful enough to kill the transformed and everyone else in the vicinity. And if the device boasted its own guidance system-which was no doubt the case, since its target was deep in Xhaldia's atmosphere-even the Draa'kon couldn't call it back anymore.
"How long do you estimate until detonation?" Picard asked.
Suttles didn't hesitate. "Twelve minutes and thirty-five seconds, sir."
The captain bit his lip. There was still time to do something about the device. But what?
With the Enterprise's weapons systems offline, he couldn't destroy the missile from where he sat. And without any of the Xhaldians' booster satellites to help him, he couldn't contact his personnel on the surface either.
Picard's only chance to defuse the threat was to take another shuttle and go after it. But even then, it seemed, his options were extremely limited.
If he destroyed the device in the planet's atmosphere, the ensuing blast would likely kill him. Nor could he beam the missile aboard his shuttle, since the transport process might detonate it as well.
Seize control of the device with a tractor beam? The captain doubted he would be able to pilot a shuttle through Xhaldia's energy-laden atmosphere and perform such a delicate tractor operation at the same time-even if he had help from one of his remaining officers.
In the end, he told himself, there was really only one course of action open to him. He would have to catch up with the device and set it off with a phaser beam. If his life was the price he had to pay to save Verdeen from destruction, he would do so-and do it gladly.
Picard turned to Rager. "You have the bridge," he told her. Then he headed for the turbolift.
Suddenly, he found Archangel barring his way. "Where are you going?" the mutant asked him.
"To a shuttle bay," the captain responded, though he need not have said a thing. Then he gave Archangel a look that made him move out of the way.
The lift doors opened and Picard got inside. But he didn't get inside alone. The mutant came with him.
As the doors closed, Archangel turned to him. "You're going after that cluster missile, aren't you?"
The captain didn't return the winged man's scrutiny. "As it happens," he said, "I am. Computer-Shuttlebay One."
The lift began to move.
"Take me with you," said Archangel.
Finally, Picard looked at him-his expression a skeptical one. "Why would I do that?"
"Because I can help," the mutant told him. "I may not be a hundred percent, but I can probably fly at peak efficiency for a short period of time. With a little luck, I can make it to the missile and disarm it."
The captain shook his head. "We don't know anything about the technology that went into it."