Chapter 35: Conspiracy — Part 1
[USS Enterprise-D — Transporter Room 2 — 2364, Day 160]
Admiral Gregory Quinn materialized on the transporter pad and Cole's perception detonated.
The energy signature was wrong. Not the wrong of injury or illness—the specific, invasive wrongness of something foreign intertwined with human biology. Quinn's baseline energy pattern was there—the normal human signature of neural activity and metabolic function—but layered over it, threaded through it, was something else. A parasitic overlay that pulsed at a frequency Cole had never encountered: fast, rhythmic, predatory, the bioelectric signature of something that was feeding on its host while using him as a vehicle.
Cole stood at the secondary console, running a "routine transporter diagnostic" that was anything but routine. His hands rested on the panel. His Assimilation read the transporter logs—Quinn's molecular pattern, recorded during rematerialization, showing subtle anomalies in the cervical vertebrae region. Something was physically present at the base of the Admiral's skull. Something alive.
"Welcome aboard, Admiral." Picard's voice was warm, professional. The captain greeted Quinn with the practiced ease of a man who'd known this officer for decades. "It's good to see you."
"And you, Jean-Luc." Quinn smiled. The smile was perfect—the right muscles, the right timing, the right warmth. Perfect. Too perfect. The same manufactured quality Cole had learned to recognize in Lore—expression without authentic origin, the mimicry of humanity by something that understood the mechanics but not the meaning.
Cole's black-stained fingers gripped the console. The Armus fragment pulsed—responsive, agitated, recognizing in Quinn's parasitic overlay something that resonated with its own alien nature. Something wrong inside a human body. I know what that feels like.
Quinn's eyes swept the transporter room. Professional assessment. Naval habit. When they passed over Cole, there was no pause—the Lieutenant at the diagnostic console merited no attention from an Admiral on inspection duty.
But the parasite's energy shifted. A fractional intensification of the overlay's pulse rate, directed—however briefly—toward Cole's position. The parasite had sensed something. Not Cole's abilities specifically. More like a predator registering the presence of another predator—the instinctive awareness of something that existed on the same frequency of wrongness.
Cole kept his face neutral. His hands kept running the diagnostic. His perception tracked Quinn's parasitic signature as the Admiral left the transporter room with Picard, the energy pattern moving through the corridors like a flame inside a lantern.
---
[USS Enterprise-D — Deck 8, Corridor — Day 160, 1600 Hours]
"Something's wrong with Admiral Quinn."
Riker stood in the corridor outside his quarters, uniform jacket unfastened, the off-duty posture of a man who'd been heading for a quick nap between shifts. His expression shifted from relaxed to guarded at Cole's approach.
"Wrong how?"
"His energy signature." Cole kept his voice low. Measured. The voice of a rational officer presenting concerns, not a man who knew from television that the Admiral was hosting an alien parasite. "I detected an anomaly during transport. A secondary energy pattern overlaid on his baseline—parasitic in nature, concentrated in the cervical region. It's not human."
Riker's expression completed its transition from guarded to skeptical. "Quinn is a decorated Admiral who served with distinction for thirty years. He was my mentor at the Academy. You're telling me something is inside him?"
"I'm telling you his energy signature is compromised. I'd recommend a medical scan—"
"On an Admiral? Based on an energy reading from a lieutenant whose abilities I still don't fully understand?" Riker's voice carried the particular edge of a man who didn't want to hear what he was hearing. "Cole, I respect what you did on Vagra II. But Quinn is an old friend. A trusted officer. And frankly—" he paused, choosing words, the First Officer's diplomacy competing with genuine frustration "—your talents are making you paranoid. Not everything is a threat."
"Commander—"
"Dismissed, Lieutenant." Riker's door closed. The corridor was empty.
Cole stood alone and breathed through the frustration. Riker's dismissal was rational—from his perspective, a junior officer was making alarming claims about a respected Admiral based on unverifiable perceptions. The chain of command existed for reasons. Those reasons were going to get people hurt.
In the show, Quinn attacks Riker in his quarters. Superhuman strength from the parasite. Riker ends up in sickbay. Then Picard investigates, discovers the conspiracy, and the Enterprise goes to Earth.
That hasn't happened yet. The timeline is shifted—events are moving differently. Maybe Quinn doesn't attack Riker. Maybe the butterfly effects have changed the sequence.
Or maybe Quinn attacks tonight and Riker wakes up in sickbay with the knowledge that the paranoid lieutenant was right.
Cole couldn't wait for canon to play out. He needed evidence—tangible, verifiable evidence that the parasites existed, that Quinn was compromised, that Starfleet Command was infiltrated.
He went to the medical database. His access as an Engineering officer was limited, but the terminal in the ship's library gave him research access—academic journals, xenobiology archives, case studies on parasitic organisms across Federation space. He searched: neural parasites, bio-electric overlay, cervical infiltration, behavioral modification.
The matches were disturbing. Scattered reports across decades—unexplained behavioral changes in high-ranking officers, isolated cases dismissed as stress or neurological disorders. No pattern unless you were looking for one. No connection unless you knew what connected them.
Cole compiled the data. Cross-referenced the reports with command appointment dates, policy changes, communication anomalies. The picture that emerged was incomplete but chilling: a systematic infiltration of Starfleet's command structure, parasitic organisms taking control of key personnel, using their hosts' authority to reshape the Federation's military posture.
He saved the research to an encrypted file. His hands—the black ones, the cold ones—moved across the terminal with the particular urgency of a man building a case against time.
Dinner was impossible. His stomach was knotted, his appetite killed by the combination of dread and frustration. Tasha arrived at his quarters at 1900, took one look at him, and knew.
"What's wrong?"
"Bad feeling." He couldn't tell her more. Not yet. Not without proof. "Very bad feeling."
She sat beside him. Didn't push. Didn't demand. Just sat, her shoulder against his, the warmth of her presence a counterweight to the cold certainty building in his chest. They stayed like that until his PADD screamed with a medical alert at 0147 hours: Commander Riker, admitted to sickbay with severe injuries sustained during an altercation in his quarters.
Assailant: Admiral Quinn.
Cole showed Tasha the alert. Her expression hardened—the shift from girlfriend to Security Chief happening in the time between heartbeats.
"I tried to warn him," Cole said.
Tasha was already pulling on her uniform. "Tell me everything."
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