Day of Honor 01_ Ancient Blood - Diane Carey [93]
“Good. Doctor? Ready?”
“Ready. Listening devices sewn into my cuffs—right here in the lace—”
“Perfect. I can barely see them.”
“And here’s the camera.”
“That’s huge.”
“It’s the width of two human hairs.”
“But it’s visible, is what I mean.”
Worf listened to the conversation between Riker, Data, and Beverly Crusher, and had to shudder down a distasteful fit of nerves about this whole mission. He was determined to get Grant, but the captain’s idea of taking shipmates along did not sit well. Four persons could not hide as well as one, could not effect stealth, and quadrupled the risks for great loss. These people’s lives were in his hands, and their deaths would be on his conscience.
Still, he was also deeply moved by their willingness to go after a Federation operative whom they didn’t even know and whose cover had been blown. Many would consider that too much risk for very little gain, and they would be right. All talk of operatives, partners, missions, and official business was thinning out. They were now doing all this just to get his friend back.
He wanted to thank them, to turn warmly and display his gratitude for their devotion. Somehow that desire kept turning inward each time it began to surface. How much could one man bottle up?
“Sir,” he turned to Riker, disturbed by what he had heard the first officer say to the doctor. “You also have audio and video devices on—you must both have them on your persons. I know how Ugulan thinks.”
Riker smiled reassuringly. “I’ve got mine. Right here.” He plucked at a button on his Sindikash city-style buffalohide jacket. “And here’s the audio.” He pointed at a fingernail, which had a thin layer of gloss upon it. Virtually invisible.
Beverly Crusher palmed her red hair back and tied it out of the way. “I hope this goes the way you plan, Worf. Khanty had enough spies everywhere that she knew where two unidentified witnesses were. What are the chances she’ll know we’re coming?”
“Pretty darned good,” Riker filled in.
Worf sighed. “This is too dangerous.”
Riker gripped his arm. “Don’t worry. It’ll just distract you.”
“The situation is deadly. We can die.”
“Decision’s been made.”
Feeling his bones rumble, Worf knew Riker was forcing him to shift back into obey-the-order mode just long enough to get him to stop hesitating.
“Aye, sir,” he complied, irritated.
“Data?” Riker strode away from Worf, somehow moving casually despite the cramped quarters of the shuttlecraft cockpit.
“Ready to beam down anytime you wish, sir,” the android said, and looked up. “Coordinates are set for the central government compound, outside the holding cell area.”
“Did you try to beam us directly into the cell?”
“I found those coordinates, sir, but we have no way of knowing which specific cell Mr. Grant is in. Also, the cells have scrambler shields around them. We might materialize, but without most of our extremities.”
“Well, I’d like to keep my extremities. So we’ll just break in. Let me have a look at you, Data.”
Data came to his feet and turned to face them. He wore a dark gray double-breasted vest that was made of corduroy, a drover’s yellow embroidered bandana, like the kind Sindikash wives and sweethearts made for their men before the annual bison drive, and a simple brown shirt and trousers. The most remarkable change, however, was to his skin and eyes. A prosthetic covering had been fitted to his face and hands, so hair-thin and sensitive that it was completely indistinguishable from real human skin. He even looked a little tan. His amber eyes were now blue. His lips had some color for a change, and he had eyebrows.
“You look like my little brother,” Riker said with a grin of satisfaction.
“I rather enjoy the appearance,” Data mentioned. ” Except that the prosthetic loses its integrity with time and begins to shrink.”
“Not a bad way to lose weight. Worf, you ready to do this?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Let’s beam down.”
“Oh, my God …