Boogeymen - Mel Gilden [1]
On his left was Counselor Deanna Troi, wearing one of the blue, barely regulation gowns she preferred. She seemed to be the most relaxed person on the bridge, though her wide questioning eyes showed a profound interest in what was going on. Her job was to report her empathic feelings in situations in which little hard data was available. Her empathy occasionally crossed the line into sympathy, but that was not necessarily a defect. In some instances, it could even be a boon. She was a resource that Picard appreciated.
Data called out, “Object closing at warp six. Estimated time to contact, seven point four three minutes.”
“Prepare to intercept, Mr. Winston-Smyth,” Riker said.
“Aye, sir.” The blond woman touched a pad on the conn panel.
Picard looked in the direction of the aft turbolift as its doors hissed open. “Take the conn, please, Mr. Crusher.”
“Aye, sir.” Wesley walked quickly to his station while Ensign Winston-Smyth slid out of the way and took up a position at mission ops, directly behind Lieutenant Worf.
Data cocked his head and said, “This is very odd, sir.” He changed a setting on his board. “The object is moving at warp six, but there is no evidence that a warp drive is being employed.”
A voice behind Picard said, “We are dealing with aliens, Commander. Anything is possible. Anything not forbidden by the rules of the universe is eventually required.” It was a deep voice, almost lugubrious in tone.
Picard did not turn around. He knew that standing next to Worf was a Starfleet lieutenant named Shubunkin. Shubunkin was a first contact specialist. Early in the history of the Federation, races had just blundered into each other. Inevitably, mistakes in protocol, etiquette, and courtesy were made. The result was frequently bad feeling or even war—breaches that could take years to repair. Specialists were needed to soften the shock of meeting.
“It seems to me,” said Riker as he looked over his shoulder at Lieutenant Shubunkin, “that there’s no need to be unnecessarily mysterious or metaphysical about this. Aliens do things differently from us. That’s what makes them alien.”
Picard did not dare smile. His first officer was as open-minded as any officer in Starfleet, but that did not prevent him from needling Shubunkin for his pretension.
“I can pick up the object on visual now,” Data said.
“Do so,” said Picard.
The image wavered and then, in the center of the screen, Picard saw a sliver of brightness that was not a star. It was too big and the wrong shape.
“Magnification five,” said Riker.
When the image re-formed, the screen showed a kind of ship Picard had never before seen. It seemed to have no engines, no sensors, no windows, nothing to break its smooth silvery surface.
“It looks like a teardrop,” Riker said.
“An apt description, sir,” Data said. “It is likely that the streamlined shape means the ship was designed for use in atmosphere as well as in space. It is also the source of the broadcasts we have come to investigate.”
Data touched his control pad, and the signal came up on audio: it sounded like insects playing insect musical instruments. The signal had no melody that Picard could discern; computer analysis confirmed his conclusion. Yet the sounds were pleasant, even relaxing. Who was making them and what did they mean?
“That will be enough, Mr. Data.”
“Aye, sir.” The audio repeat of the signal stopped, though Picard knew it was being recorded and analyzed deep in the bowels of the main computer.
Wesley licked his lips. He never took his eyes off the viewscreen. He had listened hard to the transmission, as if he could wring some meaning from it that the computer could not. And perhaps Wesley could. Picard liked the boy as well as he liked anyone he considered a child. Wesley was intelligent and creative—if a little overeager and entirely lacking in experience. Someday he might even become a good Starfleet officer.
Riker said, “Can you tell us what’s aboard, Data?”
Sitting behind Data, Picard could see by the way his head jerked and his spine straightened that something had astonished