Star Trek The Next Generation: Planet X Read online

  A strange group indeed. But it wasn’t just the strangers’ appearances that made him wary. It was where and how they had shown up—in an obscure part of the starbase, without any kind of warning or prior notice.

  Clearly, their appearance was linked with the blinding flash that had taken place a moment earlier—and the flux build-up that had accompanied it. It was too much of a coincidence for Palmieri to believe otherwise.

  But what was the connection? Who were these people?

  “Stay right where you are,” he barked.

  He trained his phaser on the intruders. They didn’t seem to have any weapons in hand, but that didn’t mean they weren’t armed—or dangerous in some other way.

  “Careful,” said the one with the wings on his back. “That looks like a weapon he’s holding.”

  “I believe Archangel’s right,” the one with the tail chimed in.

  With the hand that held the palm light, the security officer tapped his communicator. “Palmieri to Chief Clark. Trouble on level ten, section four—request backup.”

  Help would be on its way in a matter of seconds. All he had to do was hold these people until then.

  The man in the mask took a couple of steps toward Palmieri. “How about ya put that toy away, Sparky, and tell the ol’ Canucklehead what kinda fryin’ pan we landed in?”

  Frying pan? thought the security officer.

  He remained calm and aimed his weapon directly at the stocky stranger. “I told you to stay where you are!”

  “Or what?” asked the masked man. “You’ll slap my wrist? Lemme tell ya, bub, I been slapped by bigger and better.”

  I warned him, thought Palmieri. Pressing a stud on his phaser, he hit the stranger square in the chest with a ruby-red beam, sending him flying backward into the arms of his companions.

  What happened next turned the security officer’s knees to jelly. The biggest of the strangers, who had looked perfectly normal to that point, suddenly grew even larger, produced a skin of shiny armor plating, and interposed himself between Palmieri and the others.

  The security officer could think only one thought: shapeshifter!

  That would mean the strangers were Dominion agents—all of them. And they’d had the gall to materialize right in the middle of the station, as if they somehow owned the place.

  Palmieri grated his teeth as he tried to remember what he’d learned about changelings. Did phaser beams even have an effect on them? And if they did, at what setting?

  “Stop,” said the shapeshifter. “We have done nothing wrong.”

  Suddenly, the security officer heard a pop, and realized one of the strangers had disappeared. As the scent of sulfur reached him, he realized it was the one with the dark-blue skin.

  But where had he gone? Back to whatever vessel they had come from—even without the benefit of a temporal-flux incident? And why hadn’t the others gone with him?

  Before Palmieri could come up with an answer, he felt something grab him from behind and spin him around. Before he knew it, that same something had ripped his phaser from his grasp.

  Only when it was over did he realize it was the stranger with the tail who had disarmed him. Instinctively, Palmieri took a swing at him, but the stranger did a backflip and avoided it.

  “Drop it!” came a shout from Palmieri’s right.

  Turning, he saw that it was Chief Clark who had voiced the warning. Phaser in hand, she was entering the cargo bay with a half-dozen armed security officers right behind her.

  Reinforcements, Palmieri thought. And none too soon.

  “Lights,” said Clark.

  Instantly, the cargo bay was illuminated. Palmieri could see the intruders better than ever—but it didn’t prepare him for what came next.

  One of the strangers—the younger of the two females—began to sink right through the floor. One of the other security officers fired at her, but the phaser beam stabbed right through her and left a char mark on the bulkhead beyond. A moment later, she was gone.

  “That does it,” growled the masked man, who seemed to have recovered already from the blast he’d taken earlier. “Ya want a fight that bad, I’ll be glad ta oblige!”

  “No!” cried the remaining female, a tall, dark beauty with hair that looked like spun platinum.

  Her comrades stopped dead in their tracks—even the man in the mask, though he grumbled about it. Obviously, they were accustomed to taking orders from the woman.

  She turned to Chief Clark. “This is unnecessary,” she said.

  “I’ll go along with that,” the chief agreed. She glanced at the stranger with the tail, her dark eyes blazing. “Of course, you’ll have to return that phaser if you want to keep this cordial. And I want your friend—the girl—back where I can see her.”

  The woman with the silvery hair nodded to the one with the tail. “Give it back, Nightcrawler.”

  “Your wish is my command,” he replied. And with a casual air, he tossed Palmieri’s phaser to him.

  The man with the wings then turned to the floor. “It’s all right, Shadowcat. You can come out now.”

  Before Palmieri’s wondering eyes, the younger woman’s head floated up out of the deck surface. Then, when she was satisfied there wasn’t any danger, she ascended the rest of the way.

  Palmieri shook his head. Who are these people?

  “Wait a minute,” said another of the strangers—a fellow with closely cropped red hair, decked out in yellow and green. He took a couple of steps toward Clark.

  “That’s far enough,” she told him.

  Suddenly, the red-haired man grinned. Then he turned back to the woman with the silver hair and indicated Clark with a gesture.

  “D’ye not see it?” he asked, in what Palmieri was beginning to recognize as an Irish brogue.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, then widened again. “Yes,” she answered at last. “It’s the same uniform, isn’t it? And the same insignia.”

  “Exactly th’ same,” the redhead confirmed. He turned to Clark again and spread his hands in a gesture of peace. “Tell me, Lass … would ye happen t’ know a lad by th’ name of Picard?”

  The name sounded familiar to Palmieri. Then he realized where he had heard it before.

  Jean-Luc Picard was the captain of the Enterprise, the flagship of the fleet. If the stories about the man were true, he had saved the Federation from destruction more than once.

  “What do you want with him?” Clark asked the man with the brogue.

  The redhead smiled. “Believe it or not, he’s a friend o’ ours.”

  Chapter Two

  PRADDIS AMON, ESTEEMED Chancellor of the planet Xhaldia, paced his high-ceilinged summer office with a heart full of trepidation. He no longer had to study the rounded monitor on his desk to know what kind of reports were coming in—and at what seemed like an ever-accelerating rate.

  In Brellos Province, a woman named Nikti Eilo had nearly killed her newborn twins when her body began drawing heat and light out of everything and everyone around her. Two hundred miles away, in the city of Cardriil, a mental patient named Tessa Mollic had thrown his ward into chaos when he began incinerating beds with the power of his mind.

  Off the Nornian Coast, a recreational fisherman was lucky to escape with his life after accidentally punching a hole in the bottom of his boat. A Mercasite gymnast had come close to suffocating when she somehow encased herself in an impermeable, metallic skin. And at Otros Paar, in the midst of an adulthood quest, someone named Erid Sovar had inadvertently blasted several prayer perches to dust with energy beams.

  Such bizarre incidents were taking place all over the globe, if the reports could be believed—and as much as Amon didn’t want to believe them, it appeared he had little choice in the matter. After all, they had been filed by sane, reliable regional administrators.

  People turning invisible, indeed undetectable except by the most sophisticated instruments … moving more quickly than the eye could follow … and one who could create
illusions so real, so powerful, she had already caused a fatal hovercar accident.

  The fact patterns were always different, but one thing remained constant. In each case, the individual at the heart of the incident had recently reached the age of twenty-two.

  Why that span of years? Amon had no idea. But it was the only common thread that seemed to exist, tantalizing him with the hope that he might understand what was going on if he just tried hard enough.

  A voice filled the room, startling him out of his meditation. “Chancellor? It’s the security minister.”

  Amon nodded. “Send him in.”

  A moment later, Minister Tollit entered Amon’s office, his white garb marked by the black ribbon of the security corps. Taller and broader than Amon, he inclined his silver-tufted head and spoke in a deep voice.

  “Good to see you, Chancellor—though I wish more pleasant circumstances had brought us together.”

  “So do I, Tollit,” said the chancellor. He tilted his head in the direction of his desk. “You’ve seen the lastest reports?”

  The minister nodded soberly. “I have indeed. They’re … disturbing, to say the least.”

  “Yes,” Amon agreed. “But the repercussions may be even more so.”

  Tollit looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “The public feels endangered,” said the chancellor. “Our people are frightened. And perhaps they are right to feel that way.”

  The security minister shrugged. “I have yet to hear of these strange twenty-two year-olds using their abilities to hurt anyone.”

  “But it will happen eventually,” Amon insisted. He eyed his colleague. “Mind you, the youth in question may only be acting in self-defense, or perhaps what he perceives to be self-defense. But he will lash out at someone and there will be a tragedy. And when that happens, the news will spread like wind-driven fire.”

  Tollit considered the possibility. “Then we must prevent the spark … and thereby the fire.”

  “Agreed,” the chancellor replied.

  He turned to the oval window behind his desk, where the cloudless sky was mellowing to a dusky orange. He could still make out the dark smudge of the Obrig Mountains on the distant horizon, with the lights of the area’s only city clustered at their base.

  “Verdeen,” he said.

  The security minister regarded him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Verdeen,” Amon repeated. “There’s a fortress there left over from the Seven Years War.”

  “An ancient fortress,” Tollit reminded him.

  “But still, our best option. I want you and your people to round up those who’ve been … transformed … and bring them to Verdeen. For their own safety, as well as everyone else’s.”

  The minister frowned. “We can’t keep them there forever, Chancellor. We haven’t the right.”

  Amon sighed deeply. “I’m afraid this goes far beyond the issue of anyone’s rights, Tollit. Though, as you must know, I don’t like that idea any better than you do.”

  The minister nodded. “Yes, Chancellor. I know.”

  “That will be all,” Amon told him. “At least for now.”

  Tollit inclined his head again and left the room. In his wake, there was a silence the chancellor could only describe as oppressive.

  Xhaldian society had been built on the privileges and responsibilities of the individual. It pained Amon to take a barbaric step backward in that regard, to imprison people when they hadn’t done anything wrong. But the transformed represented a new kind of danger, unlike anything any Xhaldian had encountered before.

  And, as someone had once said, desperate times called for desperate measures.

  * * *

  As Commander Worf got up from the center chair of the Defiant, he glanced at each of the men and women operating the ship’s key bridge stations. Finally, he settled his gaze on Chief O’Brien.

  The engineer smiled at him. “Say hi to all our old friends for me, won’t you?”

  The Klingon no longer believed in showing a lot of emotion in public—especially when he was in command of the Defiant. Many emotions were undignified, after all.

  Naturally, Jadzia believed otherwise. But then, Worf and his new mate differed on a great many subjects. It was hardly a shock that they would differ on that one as well.

  “I look forward to it,” the Klingon said simply.

  Of course, O’Brien had known Worf a long time—longer than anyone else on the Defiant or, for that matter, on Deep Space Nine. The engineer’s smile turned into a grin.

  “Whatever you say, Commander,” he replied.

  Tapping his communicator badge, the Klingon raised his bearded chin, imagining it gave him an air of self-possession. “Worf to Enterprise. One to beam over.”

  “Ready, sir,” came the response.

  The voice was unfamiliar to Worf. But then, he hadn’t set foot on the Enterprise in almost a year. In that period of time, considerable changes would have taken place in ship’s personnel.

  “Take care, sir,” O’Brien told him. “And don’t let them kid you too much about your wedding, all right?”

  The Klingon didn’t respond to O’Brien’s reference about his recent nuptials. However, he fully expected that the chief was right. No doubt, some of his former comrades would find something humorous in his marriage to Jadzia Dax.

  Others would simply congratulate Worf on the event. Captain Picard would be one of the latter, he expected. After all, the captain was a man who showed others the proper respect.

  “Energize,” said the Klingon.

  There was no sensation to signal the fact that his atoms were being scanned, reorganized, and shot across the void. There was only the always-strange recognition that he was suddenly somewhere else—in this case, one of the Enterprise’s several transporter rooms.

  The operator was a slender woman with short red hair. As Worf had gathered from hearing her voice, he didn’t know her.

  That came as no surprise to him. What the Klingon did find unusual was the absence of his friends and colleagues. Except for the transporter operator, he was all alone in the room.

  “Welcome aboard, sir,” the woman said cordially.

  “Thank you,” said Worf. He couldn’t help frowning. “I had … expected there would be someone here to meet me. Other than yourself, I mean.”

  The transporter operator just looked at him. Obviously, she didn’t know what to say to that.

  “Never mind,” the Klingon told her. “It is not important.”

  Clearly, he thought, the captain and his command staff were engaged in some urgent and unexpected business—though Worf had difficulty imagining what that business might be. Stepping down from the platform, he crossed the room and headed for the exit.

  He was almost there when the doors slid aside and revealed Captain Picard. The man looked distracted—so much so, he almost walked into Worf before he realized his former tactical officer was there.

  “Mr. Worf!” the captain exclaimed.

  The Klingon suppressed a smile. “I am pleased to see you, sir.”

  “You look well,” said Picard.

  “As do you, sir.” He eyed the captain more closely. “Has something pressing come up? Something of which I should be aware?”

  Picard looked at him. “I … don’t believe so,” he responded finally. “Why do you ask?”

  Worf sighed. “No reason.”

  True, he had expected a bit more of a reception. However, he had hardly seen the captain over the course of the last few years. The same was true of the Klingon’s other former comrades—Deanna, Data, Geordi, Dr. Crusher, and Commander Riker.

  Times change, he told himself. People change. They make other friendships and move on.

  “Well,” said Picard, “why don’t we repair to the observation lounge? We can discuss the diplomatic conference. No doubt, you already have some ideas as to how you would like to approach it.”

  Worf nodded, reminded of the reason for his visit. Wi
th the efforts of the Klingon Empire so vital to Federation security these days, Starfleet Command had decided to hold a strategy meeting with a number of high-ranking Klingon military leaders.

  As the Starfleet officer most familiar with Klingon customs, Worf was asked to attend a planning session at Starbase 42. After all, the last thing Command wanted to do was offend or alienate its guests—and who knew the potential pitfalls better than a warrior of the House of Martok?

  On the other hand, with the Jem’Hadar a constant threat, Captain Sisko hadn’t wanted the Defiant gone too long from Deep Space Nine. Hence, the rendezvous with another starship.

  The Enterprise was selected for the job because her captain had served as the Klingons’ Arbiter of Succession years earlier. As that had given Picard some standing in the Empire, his input was valued as well.

  “Indeed,” said Worf, “I do have some ideas.”

  “Excellent,” the captain replied.

  Then he led the way out of the transporter room. The Klingon followed, feeling as if he had just conversed with a stranger. It was not a particularly good feeling.

  Catching up with Picard, he cleared his throat. “You know,” he said, “I have taken a wife.”

  The captain glanced at him. “Yes, I’ve heard. That lovely young woman Captain Sisko depends on so much. She’s a Trill, as I recall.”

  Worf nodded. “That is correct.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Jadzia. Jadzia Dax.”

  “Of course. Congratulations,” Picard said.

  The Klingon did his best to conceal his disappointment. He had expected a bit more from the man he had designated his cha’DIch—his ceremonial defender—when he was accused of treason on his people’s homeworld several years earlier.

  “Thank you,” Worf answered hollowly.

  Suddenly, something occurred to him. Perhaps it was the captain who was disappointed in him. Hadn’t the Klingon held his wedding without inviting anyone from the Enterprise? And, if he were in Picard’s place, wouldn’t he have taken offense at that?

  “I would have invited you to the wedding,” Worf began to explain, “but Alexander was shipping out in a matter of days. There was no—”