Part 2 (1/2)

Once it had stopped, the bridge was silent for a long moment as they all looked to the commander.

The commander, in turn, looked to the screen. There was no sign of the planet now ... no, wait. There it was, a speck so small as to be almost undetectable. That was how far away they'd been hurled.

”Helm,” he said slowly. ”Bring us to within firing distance. Weapons, stand ready. Lock on to life readings and open fire. Tron,” he added, turning, ”shouldn't you be at your post?”- an unspoken admission that perhaps Tron had been out of his league on the planet surface.

Tension evaporated from Tron's body. ”As you wish, commander,” he said.

The Klingons moved with deliberate caution, wanting to get to just within the range where they could cut loose at the upstart Kreel who had treated them with such indignity.

There was, however, one thing that they had not allowed for. Perhaps it was because they felt that, now that they were on guard, they would be better prepared. Perhaps it was their firm belief that such an aberration could never happen twice.

Whatever the reason, it simply never occurred to them that the weapon on the ground might have greater range than they did. And when the ground fire cut loose again, it was clear that what had come before was merely a warning shot.

A beam of pure energy lanced upward, cutting through their s.h.i.+elds as if they were nonexistent. It sliced across the left warp nacelle, blowing it apart. And now there were indeed Klingon death screams as Klingons were incinerated instantly, or ripped apart by the power of the blast, or sucked completely out of the s.h.i.+p and hurled into the pitiless vacuum of s.p.a.ce where they all would die instantly.

On the bridge of the crippled s.h.i.+p, the commander never flinched. Death held no fear for him. Now, though, surviving meant more than simply avoiding death. He had to warn the Klingon Empire what was happening: Had to warn them that the balance of power had s.h.i.+fted dangerously, had suddenly been skewed toward an immature race with a century's worth of grievances and an itchy trigger finger.

”Get us out of here,” he said.

”Warp drive severely damaged, sir. Navigational console is ... ”

”Get us out of here,” he repeated, ”even if you have to go out and push.”

They got out of there.

Chapter One.

WESLEY CRUSHER LISTENED carefully, trying to screen out everything, including the sound of his own soft breathing.

He was crouching against a tree, phaser in hand, examining every bush for where the potential danger lay. A gentle breeze rustled the plantlife around ...

A breeze? Or was it ... ?

He quickly swung his phaser around, aiming at one particular bush that appeared to be moving more than it should. He squeezed off a quick shot and waited, prayed, for an unconscious body to fall out of it.

Nothing happened. The bush continued to sway serenely. No one obediently tumbled out, insensate.

Wesley's mouth twitched in annoyance. He flicked away a fly buzzing ceaselessly around his face.

Then he sensed, rather than felt, something crawling across his boot. He looked down, and an ugly pincered bug the size of his fist was sitting there, apparently sizing up his big toe as a potential snack.

Wesley jumped back, making a sound of disgust and shaking the thing off his foot.

And at that moment a phaser blast lanced across where his head had been only an instant before, striking the tree and knocking off a piece of its bark.

Wesley hit the ground, landing on his elbow in just the right way to send a ribbon of numbing pain spiraling through his arm.

”I hate this,” he muttered, even as he flung himself through a row of bushes that seemed to provide comparative safety.

Safety, however, it hardly was, for the bushes lined a sudden and rather abrupt drop-off. Wesley had no time to react as he rolled down the embankment, sending dirt and small rocks flying as he went. ”I hate this I hate this I hate this”, he kept saying, like a meditative chant, as he grabbed at roots to try to slow down his fall. The roots uncooperatively kept ripping out of the dirt.

Wesley ended up at the bottom of the embankment, his usually carefully combed hair completely askew, his clothes covered with dirt, and his face covered with several scratches. His arm was still throbbing. And as the world spun around him-the sun s.h.i.+ning down on him blissfully as if he were spending a relaxing day at the beach-Wesley lay there and said, ”I really, really hate this.”

Then the sun was blotted out as a figure stepped in front of it. The figure grinned down from the top of the twenty-foot incline.

”You're dead, Orange,” said the figure.

With a sudden burst of strength he wouldn't have thought still in him, Wesley rolled to the right as the phaser blast from above just missed him. He's toying with me, Wesley realized. He'll be sorry for that.

He rolled into a crouch, swung up his arm, and fired.

At least, that was the plan. Except that Wesley found himself staring dumbly at an a.s.sortment of roots clutched in his fist.

It took less than an instant for Wesley to realize that he must have let go of the phaser during his efforts to stop his roll. By then it was too late, as Wesley was slammed back by a phaser blast that hit him square in the chest.

Wesley fell back and lay still.

Unmoving.

Dead.

”Dead again, Orange!” shouted his a.s.sailant. ”You never could handle me.”

Utterly oblivious of Wesley Crusher's recent demise, Commander William Riker strode purposefully down a corridor.

Saluting was long-outmoded in Starfleet, and even if it were still in fas.h.i.+on, the many civilians that Riker pa.s.sed would hardly be bound by military tradition. And yet there was something as he pa.s.sed both civilians and crew members. Not a salute, but always some nod of greeting, a smile, a slight touch of a finger to forehead. Everyone aboard s.h.i.+p felt a compulsion to acknowledge Riker's presence.

Respect, he wondered? Yes, certainly that, but more. Genuine affection. The people, the crew, were fond of him. Before serving aboard a stars.h.i.+p with its ma.s.sive community of a thousand people, Riker would have sworn that it was impossible to be both popular and respected. Authority was authority, and that was that. William Riker had made the decision, early in his career, that commanding the respect of his people would always be of paramount importance. He wouldn't care if he were liked or not, as long as his authority was not questioned.

And he had almost convinced himself that being liked was unimportant.

Almost.

Then again, as one particularly shapely, young woman walked past him and gave him an appreciative raise of her eyebrow, popularity certainly had its advantages.

And with the reawakening of Riker's basic interest in being liked, other aspects of his personality stirred as well.

His sense of humor, for one.

Specifically, two weeks ago he'd gone on a seventy-two-hour sh.o.r.e leave. It was the longest vacation from an a.s.signment William Riker had taken in his Starfleet career, and it had not been a willing one.

”You need the time off, Number One,” Jean-Luc Picard had said with utter certainty. Jean-Luc Picard, the veteran captain of the Enterprise, had been sitting in his quarters with the serene confidence and peace of a Buddha. Riker had known that look. It was the look Picard adopted when the decision had been made, period, nothing to discuss, but debate would be entertained merely to make the subordinates feel they had contributed something.

”With all due respect, Captain, I disagree. Have you noted any diminishment in my performance and capability?”

”None whatsoever,” said Picard, fingers steepled in front of him.