[Star Trek TNG] - Double Helix Omnibus

by Peter David

  “I do.”

  “Count me in, too,” said Shelzane, nodding her fishlike head resolutely.

  “Sir, I strongly advise against this course of action,” declared Commander Crandall.

  “Duly noted.” Captain Lexen rose to his feet. “These are strange times, and they require strange deeds. Lieutenant Riker, take a shuttlecraft and strip all the Federation signage; requisition the supplies you need. I myself will brief the medical staff and ask for volunteers.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Riker. “You should also tell Starfleet to get those refugees off Outpost Sierra III, and give them all a good interrogation.”

  “Good idea. If you confront Cardassians, say you’re on a private, humanitarian mission, or say you’re a Helenite. Don’t pose as members of the Maquis or Starfleet unless you have to. Wear civilian clothes, and take as many precautions as you need. Dismissed.”

  After the captain had left the briefing room, Crandall stopped Riker and whispered, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’ll break you if you betray us.”

  Riker stared her down. “I figure there’s a good chance you won’t ever see me again. I’d love to kiss you before I go.”

  Crandall stared at him in shock, utterly speechless, but there was a yielding in her eyes that made him smile with victory. “I thought so.” He strode away, still grinning.

  Gul Demadak laughed heartily as he watched his grandson cling to the back of a Cardassian riding hound. The giant canine galloped around the show ring on the grounds of Demadak’s estate, totally oblivious to the young boy who gripped his shaggy fur and screamed. The hound was well trained; the boy was not. The stocky Cardassian looked up, noting that the sky was a beautiful shade of amber, and the breeze was hot and sulfuric. It was a wonderful day on Cardassia Prime, and he wheezed a laugh as he reached for his mug of hot fish juice.

  “Hold on to him, Denny!” he yelled, using his grandson’s nickname. If the boy fell off, he wasn’t too worried, because the ground in the ring was cushioned with several centimeters of black volcanic sand. Besides, Denny could use a little toughening.

  Sure enough, the lad slid off the withers of the giant hound and plowed headfirst into the black sand. For the first time, the hound took notice of the boy as he doubled back to lick the sand off his face.

  “Get back on!” shouted Gul Demadak from the sidelines. “You can do it, boy!”

  He heard footsteps behind him, and he turned to see his servant, Mago, shuffling toward the ring. The old Cardassian looked more bent and cadaverous than usual, and there was a worried look on his scaly face.

  Since Demadak had given orders not to be disturbed on his vacation, he rose to meet the old man with a mixture of irritation and concern. “What is it, Mago?”

  “Sorry to interrupt, Sir,” said the old retainer, lowering his head reverentially. “Legate Tarkon from the Central Command is on the emergency channel.”

  “Tarkon, eh?” Demadak tried not to show his apprehension over this bit of news. Tarkon was an old friend and comrade, but he was also his superior in the pecking order of the Central Command. He would never say it aloud, but Tarkon had become something of an annoyance since his recent promotion.

  “I’ll take the call. Watch my grandson, and make sure he doesn’t kill himself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And get him back on that hound!” ordered Demadak as he strode toward the house.

  “Yes, sir,” muttered the old man with resignation.

  Upon reaching the house, the gul went to his private study and locked the door behind him. Although his wife and daughter were out, there were other servants in the house, and Demadak had not gotten where he was by being careless. Plastering a confident look onto his angular face, Demadak approached the communications console.

  On the screen, Legate Tarkon scowled with impatience. “You kept me waiting.”

  “I’m glad to see you, too,” said Demadak with forced joviality. “Thank you for bothering me on my vacation. I was having entirely too much fun.”

  “This is an emergency.”

  “What?” scoffed Demadak. “Has the Federation swarmed across the Demilitarized Zone?” The DMZ was his responsibility, and he resented anyone telling him how to manage it.

  “Nothing quite so dramatic…yet. The Detapa Council summoned me this morning—they’re very worried about that plague planet. What is it called?”

  “Helena.”

  “Yes. They found out about our losing our troop transport, and they know the Maquis have taken charge.”

  Demadak laughed out loud. “The Maquis couldn’t take charge of a garbage scow.”

  “The Detapa Council is worried about the civilian population if that plague gets loose.”

  “It’s not going to,” declared Demadak irritably. “We have a spy on the lead Maquis ship, and she informs us that they aren’t planning to evacuate any of the Helenites. Even the Maquis aren’t that stupid. Besides, where would they take them? But they are trying to cure the disease, and it’s worth giving them a chance to do that. After all, we still have a garrison of soldiers on Helena, and we’d like to keep them alive.”

  Legate Tarkon warned darkly, “There’s a faction on the council who would like to dispense with halfway measures and just destroy the planet.”

  “I’m sure there is. There’s always a faction who want to destroy things, but in this case it’s entirely unnecessary. It could also plunge us back into war with the Federation.”

  Tarkon shook his head worriedly. “You had better be right about this, my old friend, or no power in the galaxy will be able to protect you.”

  “Of course I’m right,” insisted Demadak with more confidence than he felt. “As we’ve seen before, panic is worse than plague. The Detapa Council has no business meddling with military policies in the DMZ. Tell them to go back to reforming the nursery schools.”

  Tarkon chuckled, obviously relieved by Demadak’s bravado. “I won’t tell them that, but I will tell them that the situation is under control.”

  “You do that. I’ll be back at headquarters in two days, and I’ll file a report myself. Demadak out.” As soon as the image of Legate Tarkon faded from the screen, so did the smile on Demadak’s face.

  His bony brow knit with concern, the Cardassian went to his door to make sure that no one was in the vicinity. He closed it and double-locked it. Then he went to his communications console and set it for a low frequency that was seldom used, except for antiquated satellite transmissions. There was a satellite in orbit around Cardassia Prime that was thought to be inactive. In truth, it was a subspace relay employing technology that was far more advanced than anything the Cardassians possessed.

  Demadak’s fingers trembled as they paused over the console. Even though his transmission would be encrypted and indecipherable to anyone but the intended recipient, he chose his words very carefully:

  “Problem on test site. Outsiders present. Will try to delay overreaction from masters. Suggest you proceed to quick conclusion.” He signed it with his codename, “Hermit.”

  When he sent it, a lump lodged deep in his throat. Demadak knew that his message would not be well received, and his secret benefactor would be very angry. Very angry, indeed.

  Chapter Five

  A CLEAR, GREEN OCEAN stretched before Echo Imjim like the facet of a gigantic emerald. Vast beds of seaweed shimmered beneath the glassy surface, looking like the fire inside the immense jewel. Echo spied a buoy far below them, and small, frothy waves lapped at the alien object floating in their midst. Elsewhere, a school of flying fish broke the surface and arced back into the water like a ghostly ripple. Otherwise, nothing disturbed the glistening calm of the West Ribbon Ocean.

  The only sound in the cockpit of the sea-glider was a gentle rush of air through the struts and ailerons. Echo felt as if she could fly forever on this sweet air current, but she knew she had to get lower, even if it meant losing the current. She edged the antigrav lever down, putting
the craft into a dive. The sea-glider swooped like a graceful albatross over waters that were now lime colored.

  When the seaplane dropped down to about twenty meters above the surface, its pontoons looked liked webbed feet bracing for a landing on the water. But Echo had no intention of landing out here—she was just hoping to avoid Dalgren’s sensors by flying below them. At least she still had the easterly wind she needed to stay on course to the west.

  As a glider pilot since the age of ten, Echo couldn’t believe that she had to sneak from one continent to another. In her opinion, the air currents and the lands they blessed should be as free to travel as the breeze. There had never been borders on Helena before; overnight, freedom had vanished.

  Over the rush of air, she called to the back of the cockpit. “Are you all right, Lumpkin?”

  “Sure, Mommy!” answered Harper. The ten-year-old boy fidgeted in his seat, but he was content to stare out the porthole at the glistening sea and wispy clouds. He had always been a good passenger, even as a baby, recalled his mother. “We’re flying awfully low, aren’t we?” he asked.

  She laughed nervously. “It only looks that way. Good currents down here.” Her son knew too much about antigravity gliding for her to lie to him for very long. He would be suspicious when she didn’t go higher to look for faster, safer air currents. She sure hoped they could sneak into Dalgren without anyone throwing a fit.

  What is the big deal? We aren’t sick, and we don’t even live in Padulla! It was only happenstance that they had gotten stuck there while making a private delivery. After all, they lived in Dalgren. She knew she had broken the new regulations; but they had their own transportation, and they should be allowed to go home.

  Echo shook her antennae and peered out the porthole. Unlike a full-blooded Andorian, her skin was not blue but a wrinkled gray, thanks to her Mizarian ancestry. However, she was much taller and stronger than any Mizarian who ever lived, and she could thank the blue-skinned side of her family for that.

  She glanced at Harper, who was also gray but with blunted antennae and smoother features, thanks to the Troyian blood of his father. Ever since she heard about the plague, Echo had been watching her son like a seabird watches the kelp, but she had seen no signs of illness. If anything, he looked like he was going through a growth spurt.

  “There’s a flock of gliders,” said Harper, pointing upward.

  “What?” Scrunching lower in her seat, Echo peered into the glare of the reddish sun. High in the sky, at eleven o’clock, came what looked like a formation of snowy egrets, wending their way lazily in her direction. Echo checked her sensors and established that they weren’t birds, unless birds had twenty-meter wingspans and were made of cellulose. She counted five approaching sea-gliders.

  They must have spotted her, too, but they stayed at their high altitude, riding air currents that carried them toward her. If need be, sea-gliders could use a ripple of antigravity to keep momentum against the wind or in still air, but the constant diving and climbing made even the strongest stomachs revolt. Most glider pilots refused to use antigrav for that, preferring to climb or dive very little, only to find the best currents. It wasn’t only a point of pride, although it was that, too. Gliders simply made better time—and the gravity suppressors exhausted less fuel—when they rode the natural air currents. Fuel consumption was a critical factor in a long haul over a vast ocean.

  “Climb the wind and ride it,” was a popular phrase among glider pilots. That’s what Echo would normally have done, but this trip she was trying to hide. Despite what she saw, she still hoped that the flock wasn’t coming after her and her son. With gliders on her tail, she wouldn’t be able to go straight to Astar, the capitol of Dalgren. She would have to make for some more isolated port, hoping they wouldn’t follow a lone glider for days on end.

  Her radio crackled, making her jump. Echo peered at the device embedded in her console, surprised that they would communicate directly with her. It was a terrible breach of etiquette, since neither one of them had waved a wing to indicate a willingness to chat. Of course, this probably wasn’t a chatting opportunity.

  “Unknown glider, turn back,” warned a stern voice over the radio. “Traffic from Padulla to Dalgren is not permitted at the present time.”

  Echo looked with embarrassment and fear at her son. She had told him that they might have to do some unpleasant things to be safe, and one of those things might include lying. But the scrawny ten-year-old gave her a brave smile, which was all she needed.

  She flicked the switch and replied, “Glider Golden Wraith to unknown flock, we’re not coming from Padulla—we’re coming from Santos. And we’re residents of Dalgren, born and raised there.”

  “That doesn’t matter—all traffic has to be rerouted,” warned the stern voice coming from the peaceful flock high above them.

  Hmmm, this is serious, thought Echo, but she tried not to show how serious it was in her demeanor. “We’re not even going to Dalgren,” she replied snidely. “We’re going to fly right past…on our way to Tipoli.”

  “You’re going to turn back.”

  “Excuse me, but you don’t own these skies,” she snapped at the faceless voice. “I’ve been flying this easterly current since you were in diapers! We’re not sick—we haven’t been in Padulla. We should be free to go wherever we want!”

  There came a tense pause, and Echo let her bravado fade for only an instant. She smiled confidently at her son, but he was starting to look anxious. “Maybe they’ll see reason,” she said, “and do the right thing.”

  The radio crackled. “You will turn back right now,” warned the voice, “or we will force you into the sea.”

  “Or you’ll kill me and my son!” she muttered, although she kept the radio mute. They had given her a long pause, and now they were going to get one in return. While they waited, Echo used her sensors to scan the air currents above them. She had already decided to make a run for home before she turned back to a place where everybody was dying.

  Before the flock could respond, she activated the elevators on the tail section, turned antigrav to full, and soared upward. The golden nose cone sliced through the clouds, until she found a southernly flow that was fast but wouldn’t take her terribly far off course. With any luck, they might conclude that she was turning around, not running.

  “Glider Golden Wraith, turn to heading—” Echo flicked the radio off before it became even more annoying.

  With embarrassment, she shouted back to Harper. “We tried to talk reasonably to them, but they weren’t being reasonable. So we’ll just go around.”

  “We’re breaking the law,” said Harper knowingly. “You said we should never break laws.”

  “Just this once, because we haven’t got much choice.” She flashed him a grim smile.

  The ocean had turned a teal color directly beneath them, where a cold current made the kelp scarce. As she climbed, Echo could see the rainbows of color in the West Ribbon Ocean. It swirled this way and that in various shades of green and blue for ten thousand kilometers, until it struck the third largest continent on Helena—Dalgren. She could now see land with her superior vision, but it was little more than a bead of rust on the shimmering horizon.

  So close, yet still too far! If only we had left right away! Echo tried not to chide herself for getting caught up in events over which she had no control. Yes, she and Harper didn’t have to take three extra days to visit friends and relatives in Padulla. Somewhere in that brief period, the plague had exploded and become a major part of life, even supplanting the Cardassians in the news. Padulla was the hardest hit, or so they said. Certainly, the plague had been nothing but distant rumors on Dalgren when they departed nine days ago.

  Now vigilantes ruled the skies and waters, keeping away everyone, even native Dalgrens. But that gave Echo hope, because it meant that her home was still relatively free of the plague. If they could just reach it and slip back into the current of life…before it was too late.

>   “They’re coming lower,” warned her son, who was straining in his seat to get a better look.

  “Keep your seat belt on,” she ordered him, knowing she might have to make some erratic maneuvers. In normal times, sea-gliders were never armed, but these weren’t normal times. Five planes could force one plane from the sky, but they would have to be fools to try that. Then again, fear and panic made people do foolish things, thought Echo, as she continued to flee from the flock of gliders.

  After thirty minutes of intense piloting, the prey and the hunters were at the same altitude, about 400 meters above the gleaming ocean. Laterally, only one kilometer separated her from the lead glider. She couldn’t hear their pleas over her radio, as she had long ago turned it off, but she imagined that they were now begging her to turn back. Land was getting closer and closer—Dalgren was a spill of brown and dark green across the turquoise horizon.

  Echo banked slightly and turned toward the west. Without warning, some kind of missile shot past her window and streaked off into the ocean, leaving a red plume of smoke. Had that been a warning shot?

  “Clones!” she shouted, shaking her fist at them. With a cringe, she glanced at her son.

  “They’re going to shoot us down, aren’t they?” asked Harper.

  “No!” she answered through clenched teeth. “They’re not going to shoot at us, because I know where the pipeline is. Hang on!”

  She cut the antigrav and went into a steep dive, being careful to keep her hand near the airbrake paddles and spoilers. There would be no more fooling around, no more running or hiding—she was headed straight for home.

  Another missile streaked by the left wing of the glider, coming much closer. She had a feeling that one wasn’t a warning shot. Warfare had been unknown on Helena for hundreds of years, so she had to hope that these makeshift armaments were none too deadly or accurate.