Planet X - Michael Jan Friedman [75]
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