"Grab my h-h-hannnnd….!"
The man's voice tailed off in an ululating wail. And Picard, caught in that horrible moment of decision, knew he could not have done anything else.
While intellectually knowing it was possibly the most hopeless, crazy and guaranteed-to-end-badly choice he could make, Picard heard Hutchens crying out in agony and could not stand idly by.
He rushed the Data in the sandstorm, aiming to shove the android off balance, distract him, anything. Even Worf would have had no illusions about his ability to tackle Data should the unthinkable happen. But the sound of Hutchens' voice twisted things deep in his animal hindbrain, drove him forward. He could not bear it. That man is my responsibility and I will not leave him…
His rush took him into the blinding smog, and his first swing connected with something solid.
"It didn't feel like hitting a body."
Riker was dividing his attention between the history his captain was relating, the increasingly annoyed glances of the doctor attending her patient, and the fascinating if unnerving spectacle of Data having his face put back together. He fidgeted his shoulders, bringing his attention back to the narrative.
"It was not a body," said Data, with his usual combination of bland fact and utter certainty, causing Geordi to growl and try and hold his friend's head still. Half of Data's cheekbone was now covered in clean, new skin.
"And what was it, Mister Data?" murmured Picard.
"It was the same thing that struck me, sir - "
Data came out of the morass still clutching the pipe, and immediately saw Picard almost on top of him, the body of Ailforth sprawled to one side, and Picard was attacking something that looked like a mobile wall of earth and rock which appeared to have reared up from the surrounding landscape itself. He was about to be killed, that Data was certain of. A human being of the captain's stature, weight and determination would be overcome in 0.245 -
All this went through Data's mind in less than a micro-second.
He lunged forward.
The amorphous column of towering soil instantly expanded, drawing the android in like an overprotective mother in a crushing embrace. He brought his arms up, trying to make it as difficult as possible for him to be immobilised, and realised very rapidly that the more he fought against it, the harder its resistance became.
Similar to quicksand. Intriguing.
He went limp, dropping his arms. The pressure on his body accordingly began to drop away, and he glimpsed in a split-second Picard's jaw and nose tilting back, choking, as he fought for air in the vice. He would still die, feeding the thing's strength by fighting. Something had to be done, and quickly. Data did it.
Distance to the captain's head: 38 inches
Length of arm available: 28 inches - insufficient
Ability to move - currently less than 20.67%
Length of pipe: 20 inches (approx) - sufficient…
"The window for action and calculation was extremely small, sir, as was the area available for aim. I am sorry."
"I didn't feel it," Picard said, reaching up now with his hand to touch the side of his jaw up to the temple. There was no mark now, no blood, and the pain was faded, buried under drugs and the cellular regeneration. Data's aim and gauge of the strength of the blow required had been mercifully accurate. "I remember nothing else until I woke up here."
"We beamed you up as quickly as we could," Riker said, and he consciously tried to keep the edge of guilt he was feeling out of his voice. "There was interference, slowed down the chief getting a lock. Three of your combadges were also non-functional, made it harder to get a fix."
"I believe some of the interference was due to the partial burial of Away Team members -" Data's voice burred over the "r" again, and Picard looked at him sharply with new concern - "under the skin of the planet."
"That's an interesting choice of words, Mister Data." Picard turned to Riker. "Hitchcock has a skin. It has movement, and life, and seemingly an intention to harm us. The question is, why?"
First officer on parade….Riker knew the question was mostly rhetorical but he also knew that Picard expected a reply. He straightened automatically. Data was currently incapable of chipping in, owing to a critical point in facial reconstruction occurring, and the captain's intent gaze was fixing on the middle distance, waiting…
"If someone wants to harm you, it's often because you either have something they want or you've done something they don't like," he said, feeling like a psych major on his first day at the academy. Picard was nodding.
"And they've gone to a lot of effort. The illusion of a thriving colony, the fabrications and communications…this isn't something put together quickly. This…this is something designed." He sat up further on the couch, putting a hand to a crick in his back and warning Beverly Crusher back with a glance. "Number One, I want you and Counsellor Troi -"
He was interrupted by a chirp from Riker's communicator.
"Riker here."
"Sorry, Commander," came the voice of the duty officer on the bridge, "but there's a call coming in from Hitchcock."
Sickbay went quiet, as all present drew breath and gave due consideration to the ramifications of this.
"Patch it through," said Riker, his eyes narrowed. On the couch beyond Picard, Ensign Redford was just coming out of unconsciousness, her face still slightly swollen. The voice seemed to swim out of the air, a known phantom:
"This is Anchorage Colony calling any starship within range. If you can hear us, please respond. We require assistance. We have sustained damage due to the recent explosion of our nearest moon. Our long-range sensors are down. It's a miracle our long-range comms are still functioning. Please, respond. This is Anchorage Colony calling -"
Riker met Picard's eyes.
"That was Mayor Stewart's voice."
"That it was," Picard agreed, and his expression was not forgiving, or amazed, but rather a mix of anger and interest. "And it seems his long-range communications system has miraculously repaired itself."
"But that's impossible. You were just down there and there was nothing. The colony was gone, if it ever existed in the first place."
"Response, sir?" came Worf's grim tones over the commlink. The Klingon sounded markedly less impressed with the miracle than the captain.
Picard paused before replying.
He never hesitates, Riker thought. He pauses. He is measured. But it's never hesitation. How does he do that?
"Acknowledge them, Mr Worf," said the captain, calmly. "Tell them…tell them the trading ship Alfred is currently in orbit. Tell them we will be beaming down a support team shortly."
The vaguest suggestion of a breath of surprise from the security station. "Aye sir," said Worf, and cut the connection. Picard fixed Riker with a wry look.
"Well, Number One, I have the feeling we are about to try and spring a honey trap without getting mired in it…"