Double Helix #5 - Double or Nothing

by Peter David

  Pocket Books Proudly Presents

  Double Helix #6 THE FIRST VIRTUE

  Michael Jan Friedman & Christie Golden

  Available Now from Pocket Books

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  The First Virtue…

  AS GOVERNOR GERRID THUL WALKED through the doors and entered the throne room of his emperor, Tae Cwan, he reflected on how different the place now looked.

  After all, the three prior occasions on which Thul had visited were all elaborate state gatherings of nobles and high-ranking officials in the empire. He was only a small part of them, though his standing had grown surely and steadily over the years.

  But this, the governor told himself, looking around at the cavernous, high-ceilinged hall and the splendid furnishings…this was different. He frowned. He was all alone now, without a crowd to hide him.

  And at the end of the rich, blue carpet that bisected the chamber’s white stone floor, the illustrious Tae Cwan himself waited for Thul. The blue-robed emper­or sat between two armed guards on a chair of carved nightwood that had given his forbears comfort for more than a thousand years.

  It was daunting. Or it would have been, if the governor were one who allowed himself to be daun­ted. But he hadn’t risen to a rank of esteem and power by being timid.

  Lifting his chin, Thul set foot on the carpet and approached Tae Cwan’s presence. The chamber magnified every sound—the flutter of his cape, the padding of his feet on the blue path, even the drawing of his breath—as if the room weren’t filled with simple air at all, but something infinitely more sensitive and unstable.

  Finally, the governor reached the end of the carpet and stopped. His emperor gazed down at him from the height of his chair, his features long and perfect, his expression a tranquil one.

  Thul inclined his head out of respect—or at least that was the nature of the gesture. Then he smiled his best smile. “I believe you know why I have come,” he told Tae Cwan, his voice echoing in the chamber like stormwaves on a rocky beach.

  “I believe I do,” the emperor replied without inflec­tion, though his voice echoed just as loudly.

  Abruptly, he gestured—and a door opened behind him. A couple of attractive handmaidens came through, followed by someone else in the deep blue color that could be worn only by imperial blood. It was Tae Cwan’s younger sister, Mella.

  The resemblance was difficult to ignore. However, as often happens in a family, the clarity of feature that made the brother a handsome man made the sister look plain and austere.

  Nonetheless, the governor turned his smile of smiles on Mella Cwan, and the woman’s eyes lit up in re­sponse. Dark and vulnerable, her eyes were by far her best attribute.

  “Proceed,” said the emperor.

  Thul inclined his head again. “As you wish, Honored One.” He paused, as if gathering himself. “I have come to profess my love and admiration for your sister, the Lady Mella.”

  A demure smile pulled at the corners of the wo-man’s mouth. Unfortunately, it didn’t make her any more pleasant to look at.

  “I ask you for permission to make her my wife,” Thul continued.

  Tae Cwan considered the governor for a moment. He had to know that nothing would make his sister happier than the prospect of marriage to Thul. And yet, the governor noted, the emperor hesitated.

  It was not a good sign, Thul knew. Not a good sign at all.

  “I withhold the permission you seek,” said Tae Cwan, his expression stark and empty of emotion.

  To the governor, it was more than a disappoint­ment. It was like a blow across his face, with all the pain and shame such a blow would have awakened in him.

  The Lady Mella, too, seemed shocked by her brother’s reply. She stared at him open-mouthed, her face several shades paler than before.

  Still stinging from Tae Cwan’s words, Thul asked, “Is it possible you will change your mind in this mat­ter, Emperor? Or perhaps reconsider my request at a later date?”

  Tae Cwan shook his head from side to side, slowly and decisively. “It is not possible,” he responded flatly.

  Thul felt a hot spurt of anger, but managed to stifle it. After all, it was forbidden to show excessive emo­tion in the presence of a Cwan.

  “I see,” he said as calmly as he could. “And am I permitted to inquire as to the emperor’s thinking in this matter?”

  “You need not inquire,” Tae Cwan informed him. “I will give you the insight you want.”

  The emperor leaned forward on his throne, his features severe and impassive. But his eyes, as dark as his sister’s, flickered with what seemed like indig­nation.

  “I do not wish you to be part of the royal family,” he told Thul. “Certainly, you have been a dedicated and efficient servant who has made considerable contributions to the Empire. However, there is also something dangerous about you—something I do not entirely trust.”

  The governor’s teeth ground together, but he said nothing. After all, it was he who had requested Tae Cwan’s response.

  “Beyond that,” said the emperor, “you are well in­ferior to my sister in station. No doubt, she would be willing to overlook this difference now. But in time, she would come to see it as a problem, as I do.”

  Mella averted her eyes, her brow creased with dis­appointment. But like Thul, she was forced to keep her emotions in check.

  “These are my reasons for disallowing your request,” Tae Cwan finished. “I assume I have made my de­cision clear.”

  “Eminently,” said the governor, though he felt something twist inside him as he said it. “And though I have not been granted my request, I remain grateful for the audience, as befits a loyal servant of the em­pire. May you continue to reign in splendor, Emper­or.”

  Tae Cwan inclined his head, his eyes sharp and alert, though the rest of his features were in repose. “Go in peace, Gerrid Thul.”

  The governor cast a last, wistful glance at the Lady Mella. But with her brother’s pronouncement still hanging in the air, she didn’t dare return it.

  Thul cursed inwardly. As his wife, the woman would have brought him immeasurable power and prestige—more than enough for him to overlook his lack of attraction to her. But with a few words, the emperor had taken away that dream of power and prestige.

  Enduring his loss—one that was no less painful for his never having had the thing to begin with—the governor inclined his head a third time. Then he turned and followed the length of blue carpet to the doors and made his exit.

  But as soon as the doors closed behind him and he was left alone in the hallway outside, Gerrid Thul turned and glowered in the direction of Tae Cwan. Emperor though he might be, the governor reflected bitterly, he had gone too far this time.

  He had humiliated one of his most determined servants—one who had risked much and accom­plished much on behalf of the Empire. He had told Thul in no uncertain terms that he would never be more than what he was—the administrator of a far-flung outpost.

  The governor swore again. Maybe he couldn’t as­cend to power by marrying the Lady Mella, but he was still no beast of burden to wallow in self-pity. He was intelligent. He was resourceful. And he was every bit as Thallonian as the feared Tae Cwan.

  For some time now, Thul had toyed with an altern­ative to marrying the Lady Mella—one that would allow him to enjoy the prominence he craved without the need to seek the emperor’s blessing. With his first option closed to him, the second came to the fore in his mind.

  And the more he thought about it—the more he considered how badly he had been treated by Tae Cwan—the more inclined he was to pursue it.

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  The First Virtue

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  OUR FIRST SERIAL NOVEL!

  Presenting one chapter per month…

  The very beginning of the Starfleet Adventure…

  STAR TREK STARFLEET: YEAR ONE

  A Novel in Twelve Parts by Michael Jan Friedman
/>   Chapter One

  Commander Bryce Shumar felt the labored rise of his narrow, dimly lit turbolift compartment, and sighed.

  The damned thing hadn’t been running as smoothly as he would have liked for several months already. The cranky, all-too-familiar whine of the component that drove the compartment only underlined what the commander already knew—that the system was on its last legs.

  Under normal circumstances, new turbolift parts would have appeared at the base in a matter of weeks—maybe less. But lift parts weren’t exactly a tactical priority, so Shumar and his people were forced to make do with what they had.

  After a few moments, the component cycled down and the commander’s ascent was complete. Then the doors parted with a loud hiss and revealed a noisy, bustling operations center—Ops for short. It was packed with one sleek, black console after another—all of them manned, and all of them enclosed in a trans­parent dome that featured a breathtaking view of the stars.

  The first day Shumar had set foot there, the place had impressed the hell out of him—almost enough to make him forget the value of what he had lost. But that was four long years ago. Now, he had learned to take it all for granted.

  The big, convex viewer located in the center of the facility echoed the curve of the sprawling security console below it. Fixing his gaze on the screen, Shumar saw two ships making their way through the void on proximate parallel courses.

  One was a splendid, splay-winged Rigelian trans­port vessel, its full-bellied hull the deep blue color of a mountain lake. The other was a black, needle-sharp Cochrane, capable of speeds as high as warp one point six, according to some reports.

  It was hardly an unusual pairing, given the Co-chrane’s tactical advantages and the dangerous times in which they lived. Vessels carrying important cargo were almost always given escorts. Still, thought Shumar, it wouldn’t hurt to make sure the ships were what they appeared to be.

  “Run a scan,” he told his redhaired security officer.

  Morgan Kelly shot a glance at him over her shoulder. “Might I remind the commander” she said, “no Romulan has used subterfuge to approach an Earth base since the war began? Not even once?”

  “Consider me reminded,” Shumar told her, “and run the scan anyway.”

  “Way ahead of you,” said Kelly, only half-suppress-ing a smile. She pointed to a monitor on her left, where the vessels’ energy signatures were displayed. “According to our equipment, everything checks out. Those two are exactly what they’re cracked up to be—a transport and its keeper.”

  Shumar frowned. “Tell them I’ll meet them down­stairs.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the security officer. “And I’ll be sure to tell them also what a lovely mood you’re in.”

  The commander looked at her. “What kind of mood would you be in if you’d just learned your vessel had been destroyed?”

  Kelly grunted. “Begging the commander’s pardon, but it was nearly a month ago that you got that news.”

  Shumar’s frown deepened. Had it really been that long since he learned what happened to the John Burke? “Time flies,” he remarked drily, “when you’re having fun.”

  Then he made his way back to the turbolift.

  Though not a human himself, Alonis Cobaryn had seen his share of Earth bases floating in the void.

  The one he saw on his primary monitor now was typical of the breed. It possessed a dark, boxlike body, four ribbed cargo globes that vaguely resembled the legs of a very slow quadruped on his homeworld, and a transparent bubble that served as the facility’s brain.

  There was also nothing unusual about the proced­ure he had been instructed to follow in his approach. And now that he was within a few kilometers of the base, Cobaryn was expected to begin that procedure.

  But first, he pulled a toggle to switch one of his secondary monitors over to a communications func­tion. After all, he always liked to see in whose hands he was placing his molecular integrity.

  The monitor screen fizzed over with static for a moment, then showed him the Earth base’s security officer—a woman with high cheekbones, green eyes and red hair pulled back into a somewhat unruly knot. What’s more, she filled out her gold and black jumpsuit rather well.

  All in all, Cobaryn mused, a rather attractive-look-ing individual. For a human, that is.

  It took her about a second to take note of the visual link and look back at him. “If you were planning on cutting your engines,” the woman told him, “this would be as good a time as any.”

  Cobaryn’s mouth pulled up at the corners—as close as he could come to a human smile. “I could not agree more,” he said. Tapping the requisite sequence into the touch pad of his helm-control console, he looked up again. “I have cut my engines.”

  “Acknowledged,” said the security officer, checking her monitors with admirable efficiency to make sure all was as it should be.

  Next, Cobaryn applied his braking thrusters until he had reduced his vessel’s momentum to zero and assumed a position within half a kilometer of the base. The facility loomed larger than ever on his primary monitor, a dark blot on the stars.

  “That’ll be fine,” the redhaired woman told him.

  “I am pleased that you think so,” he responded.

  The officer’s green eyes narrowed a bit, but she wasn’t adverse to the banter. At least, that was how it seemed to Cobaryn.

  “I suppose you’d like to beam over now,” she said.

  “If it is not too much trouble.”

  “And if it is?” the woman asked playfully.

  Cobaryn shrugged. “Then I would be deprived of the opportunity to thank you for your assistance in person.”

  She chuckled. “You Rigelians don’t lack confidence, do you?”

  “I cannot speak for others,” he remarked thought­fully, “but as for myself…I do indeed believe that confidence is a virtue.”

  The officer considered him a moment longer. “Too bad your pal in the Cochrane doesn’t have the same attitude.”

  Cobaryn tilted his head. “And why is that?” he in­quired, at a loss as to the human’s meaning.

  A coy smile blossomed on the officer’s face. “No offense, Captain, but the Cochrane jockey’s a lot better-looking.” Then she went on, almost in the same breath, “Get ready to beam over.”

  Cobaryn sat back in his chair, deflated by the wo-man’s remark—if only for a moment. Then he recalled that humans often said the opposite of what they meant. Perhaps that was the case here.

  “Ready,” he replied.

  “Good,” said the security officer, embracing a lever in each hand. “Then here goes.”

  Commander Shumar stood in one of his base’s smallest, darkest rooms and watched a faint shimmer of light appear like a will-o’-the-wisp over a raised transporter disc.

  Gradually, the shimmer grew along its vertical axis. Then a ghostly image appeared in the same space—a vague impression of a muscular humanoid dressed in loose-fitting black togs.

  The transport captain, Shumar remarked inwardly. Obviously, he had been nicer to Kelly than the pilot of the Cochrane, or the security officer would have beamed the other man over first.

  The base commander watched the shaft of illumin­ation dim as the figure flickered, solidified, flickered again and solidified a bit more. Finally, after about forty-five seconds, the process was complete and the vertical blaze of light died altogether.

  A moment later, a host of blue emergency globes activated themselves in a continuous line along the bulkheads. By their glare, Shumar could make out his guest’s silvery features and ruby-red eyes, which gleamed beneath a flared brow ridge reminiscent of a triceratops’ bony collar.

  He was a Rigelian, the commander noted. More specifically, a denizen of Rigel IV, not to be confused with any of the other four inhabited planets in the Rigel star system. And he was smiling awkwardly.

  Of course, smiling was a peculiarly Terran activity. It wasn’t uncommon for aliens to look a little clu
msy at it—which is why so few of them even made the attempt.

  “Welcome to Earth Base Fourteen,” said the human.

  “Thank you,” the Rigelian replied with what seemed like studied politeness. He stepped down from the disc and extended a three-fingered hand. “Alonis Co­baryn at your service, Commander.”

  Shumar gripped the transport captain’s offering. It felt much like a human appendage except for some variations in metacarpal structure and a complete lack of hair.

  “You shake hands,” the base commander observed.

  “I do,” Cobaryn confirmed.

  Shumar studied him. “Most nonhumans don’t, you know.”

  The Rigelian’s ungainly smile widened, stretching an elaborate maze of tiny ridges that ran from his temples down to his jaw. “I have dealt with your people for a number of years now,” he explained. “Sometimes I imagine I know as much about them as any human.”

  Shumar grunted. “I wish I could say the same about Rigelians. You’re the first one I’ve seen in person in four years on this base.”

  “I am not surprised,” said Cobaryn, his tone vaguely apologetic. “My people typically prefer the company of other Rigelians. In that I relish the opportunity to explore the intricacies of other cultures, I am con­sidered something of a black sheep on my home-world.”

  Suddenly, realization dawned. “Wait a minute,” said the human. “Cobaryn…? Aren’t you the fellow who charted Sector Two-seven-five?”

  The alien lowered his hairless silver head ever so slightly. “I see that my reputation has preceded me.”

  Shumar found himself smiling. “I used your charts to navigate the Galendus Cluster on my way to—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, the emergency illumination around them dimmed and another glimmer of light appeared over the transporter disc. Like the one before it, it lengthened little by little and gave rise to something clearly man-shaped.

  This one was human, the base commander noted—the pilot of the Cochrane, no doubt. Shumar watched the shape flicker and take on substance by turns. In time, the new arrival became solid, the shaft of light fizzled out and the emergency globes activated themselves again.