by Peter David
“Nobody thinks like that,” said Echo with a wan smile. “This is the kind of thing that happens to somebody else…someplace else.”
“So far,” added Torres.
Chakotay heaved his broad shoulders and edged the craft into a gradual landing approach. “They haven’t fired at us, so I think I’ll land. Remember, B’Elanna, you do the talking. You and Tuvok will be the ones who stay and make the arrangements. We need to exchange information, and research any cases they’ve had.”
“What about my son and me?” asked Echo.
“We’d like you to stay on board and advise us. We have to find out the situation on the other continents as well. But we’ll beam you directly to your home whenever you wish.”
Echo’s shriveled brow grew more wrinkled as she came to a decision. “You can send my son to his aunt’s place. I’ll stay with you—I think you’ll need my help.”
“Good.” Chakotay turned to Torres. “How are we fixed?”
She studied her readouts but found nothing abnormal. “All systems are green.”
“Stand by for landing.” The attack craft, which seemed small in space but gigantic as it drew close to the ground, dropped into its final approach. Chakotay fired thrusters and set her down in the barren field.
Torres braced for impact, but the landing was surprisingly gentle. The Spartacus tilted on her landing legs as she settled into the furrows, but the aged ship held together.
Chakotay smiled at her. “You can let your breath out now.”
“Nice landing. That’s not what I’m worried about.” She looked pointedly at him. “What if they won’t listen to me?”
“Just give them a little of that famous B’Elanna Torres charm,” replied Chakotay.
“No,” interjected Echo. “Command them. They’ll listen to you.”
The captain tapped his comm panel. “Tuvok, meet Torres at the transporter. We’ll wait here until you signal that it’s safe to leave.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the Vulcan.
“Good luck,” the captain said to Torres.
“If I had any luck, would I be a Maquis?” With a scowl, B’Elanna rose to her feet and strode off the bridge.
Twenty seconds later, she entered the cargo bay, which had been turned into a flying laboratory. A handful of researchers looked on as she crossed to the transporter platform, where Tuvok waited. She nodded to the Vulcan, who handed her a combadge and a holstered phaser pistol. As she added these accessories to her plain brown uniform, Torres glanced again at the researchers and doctors. They looked scared. They had trained all their lives for this battle, but they had never been on the front before. The fight would be until the bitter end, because this enemy took no prisoners.
B’Elanna tossed her short brown hair, prepared to stride out there without an environmental suit. She told herself that she had been inoculated with the best drugs Starfleet had to offer, and the biofilter would remove the multiprions whenever she transported back. But no one could be calm about facing death so squarely.
“Ready?” asked Tuvok.
Torres nodded and stepped upon the transporter platform, her hand resting on the butt of her phaser pistol. Opening and closing the hatch on this old ship was a pain, so they had decided to transport outside the ship. “Energize,” she told the operator.
A moment later, she and Tuvok materialized on the other side of the hull, a few meters beyond the Spartacus. There was nothing around them but rich, loamy soil piled in rows, awaiting seed. About ten meters away, a spring gurgled in the center of an old artesian well, and an orchard of venerable fruit trees rose beyond the well. In the distance, Torres saw a cloud of dust on the dirt road, and she pointed it out to Tuvok.
The Vulcan checked his tricorder and nodded sagely. “There are three hovercraft headed toward us. Eighteen people, total.”
“Are they armed?”
“There are no unusual energy readings. They may have small arms.”
She tapped her combadge. “Torres to transporter room. Stand by for emergency beaming.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the Bolian on duty.
Torres stood her ground as the small craft sped toward them. When they came within range of her sharp eyesight, she could see the fear and anger on their distinctive faces. These Helenites looked wild, almost fierce, in their colorful, billowing clothes, unfurled ribbons, and windblown hair. They were all hybrids she had never seen before, because they had never existed before; and they existed nowhere else outside of Helena.
The three hovercraft stopped at a respectful distance, and six riders in each jumped out and started forward. The garishly garbed welcoming committee didn’t appear to be armed, but they did look angry and upset—and uncomfortable with both emotions. As they got closer to the stoic Vulcan and the scowling half-Klingon, their fierce expressions softened, and some of them gawked openly at Torres. Most of them fell back to talk in hushed whispers, and only a handful of them kept coming.
The one in the lead was a tall, dark-haired humanoid with an olive-green complexion and fine golden hair growing down his neck into his gaudy tunic, which had puffed sleeves and golden braid. His age or ancestry would be difficult to guess, but from the way the others fell back and let him approach alone, she assumed he was the one to deal with.
“Hello!” she said, trying to muster some of her allegedly famous charm. “I’m B’Elanna Torres, chief engineer of this vessel.”
He stopped and bowed respectfully. “I am Klain, the prefect of Astar, a Royal Son of the Dawn Cluster. I beg your pardon, but we are not accepting visitors at the moment. We ask you to leave.”
“We’re like the plague,” countered Torres, crossing her arms. “You’re going to get us whether you want us or not. You can’t just cut yourselves off from the rest of Helena and hope it doesn’t happen to you. Help us study this disease and find the transmission vectors.”
“How do we know you aren’t carrying the disease?” asked Klain suspiciously.
“We just arrived. We’ve got tests, inoculations, and Starfleet records about this disease. Our ship has a laboratory and a clinic.” B’Elanna shook her head, growing impatient with this begging. “Listen, we just want to combine forces—if we find that we have to quarantine Padulla or someplace else, we will. Just work with us.”
Klain smiled and held out his hands. “Let us show you around and prove to you that we don’t have this terrible malady on Dalgren.”
“Not a single case?” she asked, incredulous.
He shrugged. “Not that I’ve seen. Granted, I’m not a doctor. Are you?”
“I’ve said, I’m a ship’s engineer. But we have doctors on board—let them examine a few of you. We’ll include an inoculation and a trip through our transporter’s biofilter, which will take out the fully developed multiprions.”
Klain bowed to her, but there was an amused smirk beneath his smile. “As you wish. Lanto! Harkeer!”
Torres watched curiously as two Helenites ran forward to do his bidding. “I’ve a favor to ask. Would you two go aboard this ship and allow this Maquis medical team to examine you?”
One of them, a tall woman with long, apelike arms, grimaced with alarm at the idea. “How do we know we can trust them?”
“We have their guests here with us,” explained Klain, motioning to B’Elanna and Tuvok. “I’m sure there’s no danger.”
While this conversation was going on, Torres caught sight of another colorfully garbed Helenite training a tricorder on her. When he saw her looking at him, he folded the device shut and melted into the crowd that was gathering.
She tapped her combadge. “Torres to bridge. We’re going to take a tour of the city, and we have two locals to beam aboard for tests. They’re about two meters in front of me.”
“We’re locked on,” replied Chakotay’s voice. “As soon as we get them, we’ll head back into orbit. You’re doing great—maybe we’ll make you an ambassador.”
“I’m holding out for admiral,” mutt
ered Torres. “Team out.”
She and Tuvok stepped away from the Spartacus and motioned the others back as well. Still looking frightened, the two sacrificial Helenites clutched hands as they waited to be transported aboard the strange ship. Judging by the welcome given to the Maquis, Torres guessed that the Helenites had already gotten a good dose of Cardassian threats and propaganda. Or maybe they were just cautious people by nature, despite their flamboyant appearance.
When the two finally dematerialized and the Spartacus lifted off into the lustrous blue sky, the Dalgrens seemed to relax for the first time. Torres saw Klain talking to the man with the tricorder, and she hoped they had gotten a clean bill of health. For people who didn’t believe the plague could touch them, they sure took a lot of precautions.
She glanced at Tuvok, who raised a noncommittal eyebrow. Torres wanted to head back to the ship and keep moving, letting these ingrates fend for themselves. But they had to confront this disease right here, right now, or they might have to chase it over every centimeter of the Demilitarized Zone for years to come.
Prefect Klain walked toward her and held out his arm like a gentleman. His black hair and olive skin glistened with a healthy sheen, and he looked as strong as a Klingon. With a sigh, she took his brawny arm, but only so as not to offend him. Several other Helenites smiled and nodded with satisfaction, as if some event had transpired of which she was not aware.
“Have you ever been to Helena before?” he asked as he led her toward a hovercraft. Tuvok followed closely behind them.
“No,” answered Torres. “Why would I?”
“The way you look. Excuse me, but you are half-Klingon, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “And half-human.”
Klain’s dark green eyes twinkled with admiration. “Half-human and half-Klingon. I’ve seen computer simulations, but never the real thing! And you were conceived naturally?”
Torres bristled. “Well, I wasn’t there, but that’s what they tell me.”
“Remarkable! Obviously, they sent you to Helena because of your unique lineage?”
“No, I’m here by chance. The Maquis doesn’t have the luxury of picking and choosing who they send places.”
She stopped at the door to the hovercraft, expecting Klain to open it, which he quickly did. If they wanted to treat her like royalty, she would oblige. Torres slipped into the open vehicle ahead of him, and Tuvok followed, keeping a close eye on their hosts. They sat in the back row of seats, allowing a driver and two more passengers to climb into the front. The other locals crammed into the remaining hovercraft as best they could. All three vehicles lifted off the ground at the same time, as if linked, then the caravan glided smoothly down the rough dirt road.
For the first time, Klain turned to Tuvok. “And you, sir, are a full-blooded Vulcan?”
“I am.”
“I myself am Antosian/Betazoid on my dam’s side, Deltan/Orion on my sire’s side. Here we pride uniqueness—the more unique, the better.”
He turned to gaze at Torres with unabashed adoration. “You, B’Elanna Torres, are special indeed.”
“Aren’t there any full-blooded species who live here?” she asked irritably.
“Unibloods, as we call them. Of course, there are.” The big man looked wistful for a moment as the hovercraft cruised slowly between rows and rows of flowering vines. The smell of ripe fruit was redolent on the tropical breeze. “Helena wasn’t always like it is now—isolated—with all this strife and uncertainty. We used to have many visitors, great commerce, spaceports in every city. A lot of unibloods came here to help us with our breeding programs, and just decided to stay.”
“So you are saying that the majority of Helenites are genetically mixed,” concluded Tuvok, “while unibloods are a minority, mostly newly arrived immigrants.”
“That’s right,” agreed Klain. “If you stay here long enough, your children will undoubtedly be unique.”
“Why is that?” asked Tuvok.
Klain smiled. “You’ve got to understand where our ancestors came from. They were persecuted all over the galaxy for being of mixed blood. Mixers, they were called in some places. Hundreds of years ago, our ancestors banded together to form a colony that would always be a refuge for persecuted mixbloods, but they did much more than that—they established the Cult of Uniqueness. It became our creed to combine species in as many permutations as possible. And some that weren’t possible.”
“You employ artificial means of procreation,” said Tuvok.
Klain stuck his chin out defensively. “Only when necessary. Most Helenites don’t have families and children in the accepted sense. We have clusters, which are communal dwellings…a type of clubhouse. For the most part, adults tend to raise their children alone, and the absent parent or parents are regarded as donors.
“We select the genetic traits of our children very carefully, weighing what kind of life we want for them, how much medical intrusion we’re willing to allow. And, of course, how attracted we are to the donor.” With a glance at B’Elanna, his defensiveness faded. “To be granted such blessings naturally, as you have been, is a great gift.”
No matter how attractive the messenger, the sentiments were still disturbing. Maybe it was the Klingon in her, but Torres found the idea of total dependence on genetic engineering to be unnatural. She switched her gaze to the buildings that had come into view: tidy two-story houses with intricate metal fences and spacious balconies. Helenites rushed onto those balconies to watch the caravan of hovercraft as it entered the city. No one waved or shouted, but they didn’t throw bricks either. Torres felt like the centerpiece of an impromptu parade before a respectful but fearful audience—the leader of a conquering army.
They passed an open-air market, and the hovercraft had to slow down to accommodate all the pedestrians. It seemed almost like a holiday, with so many gaily festooned Helenites strolling under the cheerful pennants and striped canopies. The goods in the marketplace were bountiful, ranging from fresh fruits and roasted vegetables to utensils, musical instruments, and more gaudy clothing. At first, Torres tried to pick out the different species in the faces and bodies she saw, but the Helenites were such a hodgepodge of different traits that it became impossible. It was easier to consider them all one race that came in infinite varieties.
As they pulled away from the market, she saw a full-blooded Ferengi, who came charging after them in pursuit. But their hovercraft moved more swiftly than a Ferengi on foot, and they skittered around a corner and were gone.
“Where are we going?” asked Torres.
“The Institute for Genetic Improvement,” answered Klain, straightening the magenta cuffs on his billowy shirt. “Then to the Dawn Cluster, my home. But I want you to note that the people of Astar do not seem sick, or in a panic. Yes, we have protected our borders from the terrible tragedy on Padulla, but what would you expect from us? You are looking for transmission vectors, and we have sealed off the obvious one.”
Torres gazed at the opulent city all around her, with its chic shops, grand commerce buildings, blooming parks, and contented populace. She did find it hard to believe that they were on the verge of annihilation. “You must have some sick people,” she pointed out.
“Yes,” the prefect assured her. “We are going to IGI now to interview the scientists and the few patients we have. The finest minds on the planet are found at IGI.”
He reached forward with an olive hand that was ringed on the wrist with fine blond hair, and he brushed her wrist. “I would consider it a great honor if you would have supper with us at the Dawn Cluster.”
“Yes, Tuvok and I will eat with you.”
Klain bowed his head apologetically. “We’ll make other arrangements for Mr. Tuvok to dine with fellow unibloods at the Velvet Cluster.”
Torres glowered at him. “Are you telling me that Tuvok can’t eat at this fancy club of yours?”
“He can’t even go in the building,” said Klain.
While Torres sputt
ered, unable to find the exact words to rip this popinjay up one side and down the other, Tuvok held up his hand and declared, “I would prefer to eat with the Velvet Cluster. We are on a fact-finding mission, and it would be wise to interview the uniblood community. Perhaps they are not as immune to the disease as the hybrids.”
Klain smiled gratefully. “I think Tuvok understands. The Velvet Cluster is every bit as grand as the Dawn Cluster. Ah, here we are.”
Torres looked up to see them approaching a gigantic green wall. Behind the green wall loomed the pyramid she had seen earlier, looking like a mountain with intricate steps carved into its gleaming sides. The three hovercraft made a small circle and came to a stop, sinking softly to the ground.
Klain bounded from the hovercraft and ran to the other two vehicles. As they conversed, Torres and Tuvok sat patiently, their eyes moving between their hosts and the incredible structure looming before them.
“They’re bigots,” Torres whispered to the Vulcan.
He shrugged. “Perhaps. But every culture has a social order, even if it is not as pronounced as this one. It is not unusual for a persecuted group to duplicate that persecution in another form. Otherwise, the Helenites seem to be prosperous and well adjusted.”
“At least this place hasn’t been devastated by the plague,” said Torres with relief. “We’re not too late.”
Klain returned to their hovercraft, while the other two vehicles lifted off the ground and glided away. “I told them you weren’t a security risk,” he explained. “That’s correct, isn’t it?”
“If we were looking out for ourselves,” answered Torres, “we wouldn’t be here.”
The prefect nodded in agreement. “Yes, I suppose, we haven’t been fair to you…or to our neighbors. But we’ve fought so hard to keep our home, and our way of life. Our ancestors built this colony from nothing—in the farthest corner of Federation space. The early years were very hard, and our founders suffered greatly—I’d like to show you our histories sometime. We put up with the Federation, we put up with the Cardassians, and now the Maquis—but one thing is certain, we’re going to keep our home-world.”