by Peter David
“How far underground are we?” asked Torres, beginning to dislike this arrangement.
He shrugged cheerfully. “A hundred meters or so, that’s all.”
“I don’t think being cut off from our ship is going to work,” she declared. “If this is your only facility, we’ll have to move most of the work to the Spartacus.”
“Excuse me,” said Klain. “What about the two healthy people you took earlier?”
“That’s another good reason to get in contact with our ship.” Torres began to pace the ICU, growing impatient with the time this was taking. The tour had been a good idea, but it still felt as if they were in diplomatic mode, when they needed to be on the offensive.
“Prefect Klain can take you to the surface,” said the old doctor reassuringly. “I’ll get this patient up there, and we can make all the arrangements we need. I know you understand the need for us to distance ourselves from you, but I also realize the necessity for some contact. I do.”
“See you later, Doctor,” said Torres. “Thanks for all your help.”
The diminutive fellow gave her a crinkly smile and waved both hands. Klain patiently herded them away from the intensive care unit.
The prefect looked relieved to get this unpleasantness behind them, and he asked conversationally, “Don’t you think it’s possible that the disease has bypassed Dalgren? We’re a long distance from anywhere.”
“I don’t know what’s possible,” admitted Torres, “but if you had seen conditions on Padulla—”
“Helena has awfully big oceans,” Klain reminded her. “They give our planet much of its character, and they protect us. You’ll grow to love them.”
“You sound like we’re going to be here for a long time,” she grumbled. They paused to let the door open, and the air rushed outward into the corridor; the facility used uneven air pressure to keep contaminants out of patient areas.
“I don’t know how long it will take to stamp out this terrible disease,” said Klain. “But I know that you can’t be a Maquis for the rest of your life, B’Elanna. You’ll have to look for peace eventually, and no place would suit you better than Helena. Here you would be worshipped, part of the social elite. You could be whatever you wanted to be.”
She scowled. “I’m a ship’s engineer, and you don’t have any ships.”
“Not now, but we’re a resilient people. We’ll build up our merchant fleet again. You can help us.” Klain glanced at Tuvok as they stepped into the jade-green corridor. “In fact, I would say that all of the Maquis could blend into our society with ease. You have skills we need to rebuild, and we would welcome you with open arms. Where else can you go? None of you can ever return to the Federation, and most of your homes in the DMZ are gone.”
“Your arguments have merit,” conceded Tuvok as their footsteps echoed dully in the featureless corridor. “The Maquis do not have a plan to return to civilian life. They lack long-range planning skills.”
“Not everyone thinks like a Vulcan,” Torres grumbled.
Klain pounded his fist into his palm. “I’m going to bring it up at the next Grand Cluster—sanctuary for any Maquis who wishes to settle here! After you help us save our home, it can become your home.”
The prefect smiled warmly at Torres, but she was still thinking about what Tuvok had said. “Do you really think we should start planning to get out?”
The Vulcan looked pointedly at her. “Service in the Maquis can only end one of three ways: retirement, imprisonment, or death. I would prefer to see my comrades in retirement than in either of the other circumstances.”
“That’s very considerate of you,” replied Torres dryly.
As usual, she couldn’t fault Tuvok’s logic—they should have an exit strategy from this insane life. But peace? Retirement? A return to civilian routine? After the last few months, these notions sounded like pipe dreams. Torres wondered what had brought on Tuvok’s sudden concern for the future. The proximity of so much death, she decided, could give anyone a pervading sense of mortality.
The trio finally reached the turbolift at the end of the corridor, and the doors whooshed open at their approach. Klain motioned to his visitors to enter first, then he followed them into the gleaming metal chamber. The doors breezed shut.
Again, an odd feeling of dizziness and disorientation came over B’Elanna, but it was gone a moment later. They stepped into a corridor that sloped upward and was lit with luminescent strips embedded in the green stone. She led the way, eager to get out of the underground complex. There was no reason for the IGI facility to seem so claustrophobic, especially for a person who lived and worked on a small scout ship, but Torres nearly ran for the exit.
The outer door opened as she jogged toward it, and she dashed into the warm, afternoon sunshine. Their hovercraft was parked right where they had left it, and the crowd of onlookers had shrunk but had not entirely disappeared. She tapped her combadge and growled, “Torres to Spartacus.”
“B’Elanna!” answered the relieved voice of Captain Chakotay. “Are you all right? You’ve been out of contact for almost an hour.”
“I’m sorry about that, but their medical facility is underground, and we had to take a tour.” She proceeded to fill him in on everything that had happened to them, including the fact that the bug might be a chimera.
“I’ll get our researchers on that,” promised Chakotay. “The two people from Dalgren that we examined are healthy, although one of them has one of the prions in his system.”
“We’ve got a sick person we’d like to beam up,” said Torres, “along with some records. Also, we’d like to get a couple of doctors down here to go over their files. They claim that Dalgren hasn’t had any cases of the disease.”
“Let’s hope they’re right. Maybe this won’t be as bad as it looks—a smaller continent to the north appears to be clean, so far.”
“One other thing, Chakotay.” Torres chose her words carefully. “When this is all over, we may want to lay low for a while. The prefect of Dalgren wants to offer sanctuary to members of the Maquis who would like to stay here and blend in with the populace.”
There was no immediate response from Chakotay. “Captain?” she asked.
“I heard you. There are days when that offer would sound pretty good. Ask me again when it’s all over. Right now, we’ve got work to do.”
After making arrangements that would keep the transporters and medical teams busy for hours, Chakotay leaned back in his seat on the bridge of the Spartacus. He gazed at the watery blue sphere shimmering in the sun and wondered what it would be like to live down there. It had to be better than dodging Cardassian and Federation warships, and hiding out in the Badlands.
With a sigh, he glanced at Seska on the ops console. “Any word from Riker?”
“No,” answered the Bajoran.
“Try them again,” he ordered. “I’d be a lot happier if we could just maintain contact with all of our away teams.”
Seska worked her console for a moment, then shook her head. “Riker isn’t responding, and their shuttlecraft is still unmanned.”
Chakotay scowled and balled his hand into a fist. “Let’s send a pilot to that shuttlecraft, just in case the entire Cardassian fleet shows up.”
“Danken is coming on duty in five minutes. We could send her.”
“See to it personally that she gets there,” he ordered. “Tell her to stand by the comm channels and stay on alert.”
“Yes, sir.” Seska jumped to her feet and strode off the bridge, leaving Chakotay alone to contemplate the enormity of their mission.
Their first day had gone almost too well, considering the obstacles. Chakotay wasn’t a pessimistic man, but he had a strong belief in fate. Something terrible and unforeseen was about to happen—he could feel it. But he wouldn’t worry about it. Destiny had drawn them all to this forgotten corner of the galaxy, and maybe this would be the place where their quixotic pursuit came to an end, one way or another.
Lega
te Tarkon sunk into his chair, a scowl darkening his bony, gray visage. Like everyone else in the conference room, he cowered from the tirade of Legate Grandok, who pounded the table with a beefy fist as he ranted. The object of his wrath was Gul Demadak, who stood watching his old friend, hoping Tarkon would defend him, or at least save his dignity.
No, it’s not to be, thought Demadak. He was to suffer this ignominy alone, with Tarkon letting him twist in the wind.
“I cannot believe you let this condition fester as you have!” thundered Grandok, chief of the Detapa Council. “That planet endangers our very existence, and then to let Maquis run wild on it…is inexcusable!”
There were grumbles around the room as the other members of the council agreed with their leader. So Demadak let his eyes wander out the large window to the glorious view of the Stokorin Shipyards, high in orbit over the amber clouds of Cardassia Prime. He envied the builders floating in the skeletal frame of a future starship at the next dock. Those menial workers could see the result of their work at the end of the day, while he had to think strategically—decades and centuries down the road. And in this matter, he had kept his own council, so even his friends couldn’t speak for him.
“Am I allowed to defend myself?” he finally asked. “Or is it a given that you’re going to destroy Helena and be done with it?”
That gasbag Grandok apparently needed to take a breath, because he just waved at Demadak to speak. The military commander appealed to Tarkon and his other allies. “First of all, you act like Helena is in Cardassian space. Technically it is, but it’s also in the Demilitarized Zone. We are prohibited by treaty from sending warships in there.”
To derisive laughter, Demadak nodded his head. “Yes, I know we often break that rule. However, the Federation does monitor us—as we monitor them—so we’re very careful. Sending enough ships to fight off the Maquis and kill everything on a planet is bound to bring them running. You’ve got to ask yourselves—should we start a war with the Federation over this threat? Before we’re ready? I think not.”
The laughter faded, and they were finally listening to him. “As for the Maquis, we have a spy on their lead ship. We have a garrison of two hundred mobile infantry on the planet—we know exactly what the Maquis are doing. Like the do-gooders they come from, they’re committed to fighting the disease and ending the outbreak. That’s a job that needs to be done, and we don’t really have the stomach for it. According to our reports, they’re maintaining the quarantine, keeping the Helenites on the planet. Who knows? They might succeed. We can always crush them later.”
“That’s taking a terrible risk,” warned Grandok, glowering darkly at Demadak. “The Maquis are unprincipled scoundrels who can’t even be loyal to their former masters. If they get sick, they’re just as likely to pull up stakes as remain there, spreading the disease elsewhere. After we all get the Bajoran plague, we won’t be able to punish you sufficiently.”
There were grumbles of agreement after that remark, and Legate Tarkon rose to his feet, waving down the others. “I believe my friend Demadak is thinking rationally, but we can’t be rational where this plague is concerned. We have to be irrational. We should muster enough ships in that region to make sure that the quarantine of Helena holds.”
The majority barked their agreement to this remark, and Demadak could see the compromise forming. Tarkon hadn’t gotten where he was by being a fool.
The legate lifted his chin confidently. “We must be ready to destroy the Maquis at a moment’s notice, if they fail, but not so rashly that we alert Starfleet. If we slowly assemble ships in the region, we’ll eventually have enough to scorch the planet into dust and escape before Starfleet can react. A done deed is history, not a threat.”
There was polite applause at this remark, and Tarkon looked pointedly at Demadak. “What do you say, old friend?”
The stocky gul knew that he was the military governor and could do as he wished in the DMZ, until they replaced him. Tarkon was right. When people got panicked by a plague—especially this plague—they did act irrationally. He could not be sure of holding his post if he failed to seize this compromise, and the compromise would at least buy him time. I can justify it to myself, but can I justify it to my silent partner?
Demadak decided to deal with that later. Right now, the entire DMZ was close to slipping from his grip. “I believe that plan is workable,” he said with a tight-lipped bow. “I’ll begin to assemble ships already in the DMZ, and we’ll send another warship through every day, disguised as a merchant ship. We’ll use proximity to the Badlands to mask our fleet.”
Grandok scowled, not liking the fact that he hadn’t gotten credit for the compromise. “I want a list of all the ships in this operation.”
Demadak nodded. “That list will be so highly classified that I will entrust it to the keeping of the Obsidian Order.”
That should keep your grubby hands off it, he thought to himself.
“Demadak is right,” declared Tarkon, clasping his old comrade on the shoulder. “Every detail about this operation is highly classified. Breathe of it to no one, not even your closest mistress.”
They all laughed, breaking the tension in the conference room. While the others congratulated themselves on their good sense, the legate whispered to the gul, “I saved your scales this time.”
“All the same,” grumbled Demadak, “I don’t like people telling me how to do my job. I won’t forget your interference.”
He turned and stalked out of the conference room, thinking very little about Tarkon and all the self-important legates and guls. Demadak was only worried about what he would tell his secret benefactor.
Nothing, he decided. If they could keep this operation hidden from the Federation, the Maquis, and most of Cardassia, perhaps they could keep it hidden from him. With any luck, the experiment would soon be over, and Helena would be nothing but a distant, unpleasant memory.
Tom Riker rolled over on the wide, comfortable bed and pulled an armload of silky covers to his chest. Athough it felt natural to remain asleep in this plush splendor, he suddenly realized that he wasn’t supposed to be in a bed. He sat up and blinked at the blankets, his silky pajamas, and a large, tastefully appointed bedroom done mostly in white antiques. Sunshine streamed in though the French doors, as did the gentle sound of the surf pounding against the shore.
Riker scrambled out of bed, stepping onto cool, red, rustic tiles. Atop a white armoire, he found a pile of clean clothes; a pair of calf-length black boots stood on the floor. The clothes appeared to be of traditional Helenite design—blousy shirts with colorful stripes and braids, brocaded pants with gaudy buttons and cuffs. Since he seemed to be alone in the bedroom, he stripped off his elegant pajamas and put on the outlandish clothing, which turned out to be warm, well-made, and comfortable.
“Hello!” he shouted angrily. “What am I doing here?”
There was no response, except for a flurry of footsteps that sounded far off but quickly became louder. A moment later, the white door flew open, and Ensign Shelzane stood there, looking very festive in her Helenite ribbons and braids.
He gaped at her. “What’s happened to us?”
“I don’t know, sir. I woke up in that bed, the same as you. You were still unconscious, so I just got dressed to have a look around.”
Riker strode to the door and gazed over her head at a sunny hallway that seemed to open into a large living room. “Where are we?”
“We seem to be in a beach house. I think that’s what you would call this place.” The diminutive Benzite stepped aside to allow him to enter the hallway.
Riker rushed from room to room, almost thinking he was in a vacation resort on Pacifica. Every room was light and cheery, with comfortable if not sumptuous furnishings. There were two bedrooms, a bathroom, a recreation room with exercise equipment and vidscreens, a compact but functional kitchen, and a living room; his grandmother would have called it a sitting room.
Charging back into the
master bedroom, Riker brushed past Shelzane and crossed to the French doors. He threw them open, stepped outside, and felt the sun-kissed, misty sea breeze strike his face. The sun was so bright that Riker had to shield his eyes, but he could tell that he was standing on a white observation deck that commanded a view of a narrow red beach and a few lichen-covered boulders. Beyond the boulders stretched a lustrous sea that looked like blueberry syrup with cream floating on top of it.
Shelzane stepped onto the deck beside him. “What does it mean?”
“Let’s think. The last thing I remember is that we were in that waiting room, talking to the little man—the hologram. Then something shot me in the back—”
Shelzane nodded her head vigorously. “Yes, it felt like a dart. We were probably drugged.”
Riker scowled angrily. “Before I passed out, I think I remember seeing somebody else…they were laughing.”
“Who?”
He shook his head. “Someone in a black environmental suit. But who knows, it could’ve been an hallucination…or another hologram. For all we know, this could be a hologram…one big holodeck.”
Shelzane squinted into the bright sunlight. “Yes, but there must be a thousand places on Helena that actually look like this.”
“That’s true.” Riker spotted some stairs going from the deck to the tiny beach, and he bounded down and leaped into the sand. Running, he circled the beach and jogged to the side of the house. To his surprise, the view was virtually identical in every direction—an endless horizon of shimmering ocean.
Off the front door of the house was a small landing pad and a rickety pier that went about ten meters into a picturesque lagoon. Except for three palm trees, there was nothing else.
They were alone on a tiny tropical island.
Riker heard a shuffling sound, and he turned to see Shelzane walking up behind him. Her step wasn’t as energetic as usual, and he saw deep furrows on her smooth, blue brow.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Your injury bothering you?”