by Peter David
She touched her hip. “No, not too much. I just feel a little weak…probably a side effect of the drug.”
Riker nodded, gazing from the white beach house to the sparkling blue horizon. “I wish I could enjoy the view more. I don’t suppose it would do us any good, but we should search the house for a radio, flares, or anything we could use to signal for help.”
“We should,” agreed Shelzane. “We’ll also need food and water.”
They returned to the house and soon found that food and water would be no problem. Fresh water ran freely from the faucets, and the kitchen shelves were stocked with freeze-dried food in metallic bags. It was the kind of food that might be found in survival rations, but there was enough of it to keep them alive for several weeks.
Riker was fascinated by the water pouring from the taps, and he traced a pipe under the kitchen sink into the foundation of the house. Going outside, he found a water shut-off valve at the side of the house, and he probed the sandy ground with a stick to find the underground pipe. More investigation revealed that a large pipe lay submerged in the ocean only a couple of meters under the water. Both he and Shelzane decided that this pipe brought fresh water to the isolated isle.
It seemed like an awful lot of detail for a holodeck simulation, and they reached the grudging consensus that their island paradise was real.
Riker dragged two chairs onto the deck off the master bedroom, and they sat there and watched the morning sun rise higher in the sky. This helped them make a guess as to cardinal points, and Riker drew a compass in the sand with an arrow pointing north.
“Why are we here?” he finally asked. “I can guess how, but not why.”
“We must have been spared for some reason,” answered Shelzane. “It would have been easy enough to kill us. If so, we’re probably under observation.”
Riker looked around at the multihued expanse of sea and sky. “Under observation? But how?”
“By long-range telescopes or scanners,” she said, looking up. “Or maybe there’s equipment in the dwelling.”
Riker jumped to his feet and charged through the French doors into the bedroom. Over the French provincial vanity table was a mirror, and there was another one in the bathroom. In fact, there was a large mirror in every room.
In the second bedroom, he grabbed the floor-length mirror and tried to yank it off the wall. An electric shock jolted through his body, and Riker flopped to the floor, twitching like a fish in the bottom of a boat. Shelzane rushed into the room and wrapped her arms around him, and he could feel her trembling warmth. Despite the shock and disorientation, he soon stopped shaking, and his head began to clear.
A cheerful chuckle emanated from the doorway, and Riker twisted around to see the gnomelike doctor in his white lab coat. He clucked his tongue at them disapprovingly. “Please don’t remove any of the furnishings. No, no. We only rent this house.”
With a snarl, Riker charged toward the doctor, then he stopped himself. “You’re not real, are you?”
“Nonsense, I’m Dr. Gammet. Don’t get impertinent with me. Yes, yes, you are the subjects of an experiment, but it has to be done, don’t you see? If we can get enough data on the disease this way, then we can spare all the Helenites who aren’t already infected. We can step back and let you save the planet. You’ll be saving millions of lives by your cooperation.”
“How do you know we’ll contract the disease?” asked Riker.
The little man pointed a spotted finger at Shelzane. “Because she already has it.”
Riker felt as if he had been stabbed in the chest, and he turned to look at his co-pilot. Her startled face went through three expressions: shock, anger, and a dawning realization. He remembered her injury, her recent lethargy, and the way she had been sleeping at odd hours.
“But she’s been inoculated,” protested Riker. “The same as I’ve been.”
The white-haired doctor scratched his goatish beard. “We were wondering about that. But her physiology has obviously been altered—to allow her to function in an oxygen atmosphere without a breathing apparatus. What about it, dear? Did that affect you somehow?”
Shelzane lowered her head, and the Benzite seemed to shrink into her outlandish clothes.
“You don’t have to answer him,” said Riker.
Her voice quivered as she answered, “They told me that the procedure might depress my immune system—it’s a known side effect. I should have listened, but I’ve always been so healthy.”
“Then you got injured,” said the little man. “That was an intervention of fate; it introduced the disease directly into your circulatory system.”
“But I’m not infected?” muttered Riker, hating himself for asking.
“No, Lieutenant. So far, the various Starfleet precautions are working in your system, but I can’t imagine it will take long, considering your constant, unprotected contact with Ensign Shelzane. How long it will take—that is a question of great interest to us. The two of you are almost perfect subjects for this test.”
Riker could contain himself no longer, and he charged the pompous little troll. His entire body passed through the image standing in the doorway, and he crashed into the wall in the corridor.
The doctor reappeared to add, “Please behave normally toward the ensign, just as you would toward any loved one.” With a blip, he was gone.
Riker picked himself up from the floor and gazed determinedly at Shelzane. “Listen, we will find a way out of here. All you need to do is go through the transporter biofilter.”
“Within forty-eight hours,” she said glumly. “It’s probably already been twenty-four hours. I’m more concerned about preventing you from contracting the disease.”
Not knowing what else to do, Riker took a step toward her, and she motioned him back. “No, Lieutenant! You have to protect yourself, even though it’s probably too late. I’ll be getting sicker and sicker, and you’ll have to stay away from me.”
“No, I have to get us out of here,” vowed Riker. “In time to save you.”
Through the open window in the second bedroom, he caught sight of the blue silhouette of the ocean; it seemed as vast as space, stretching into the wavering horizon. Also through the window came the timeless crunch of the surf against their spit of land, wearing it down a few centimeters a year. Time hung heavily on this island, and freedom seemed eons away, in another universe.
It dawned on Riker that time was their new enemy.
Chapter Ten
DR. GAMMET AND DR. KINCAID were grinning, and Tuvok, while not grinning, looked satisfied. The patient lying before them in the clean room enclosure was not sick but possessed two of the prions that caused the plague. If the third were present, they would combine to form the multiprion that brought on the full-scale infection. B’Elanna Torres understood that much.
She had been on the bridge of the Spartacus, scanning for Riker and Shelzane, while running computer models for the researchers, when she was summoned to the cargo hold. Starfleet’s equipment had meshed nicely with IGI’s equipment to produce a state-of-the-art laboratory in a clean room enclosure, and now they had their first success. She could see the excitement among the others, but she wasn’t quite sure of the reason.
She gazed through the clear screen at the Helenite lying unconscious on the metal table. “Why is it such a good thing that this woman is almost sick?” she asked Tuvok.
“Because she possesses a prion not previously seen in any of the other Dalgrens we have examined,” answered Tuvok. “And her exact movements can be traced. She arrived on Dalgren only three weeks ago, before the quarantine, from a small continent known as Santos. This continent lies east of Padulla, so it may be that the infection is spreading westward.”
Torres looked with sympathy at the unconscious woman, thinking she looked mostly Argrathi, with her plump face and high forehead. “So we’re off to this other continent?”
“Some of us are going there,” answered Dr. Kincaid, a middle-aged woman wh
o seldom smiled but was smiling now. “Dr. Gammet thinks it would be a good idea if you returned to Dalgren with him.”
“Why?”
“B’Elanna,” said Dr. Gammet with grandfatherly patience, “Prefect Klain was expecting you for dinner, and that was hours ago. It’s now the middle of the night. He’s been waiting a long time.”
“But we’ve got so much to do—”
“The prefect has complied with all of our requests,” said Tuvok. “We should comply with his. This mission has a diplomatic component, and devoting one person to that task is an acceptable use of resources. I would advise you to spend time with the prefect and collect information.”
“All right,” muttered Torres, tapping her combadge. “Torres to bridge.”
“Chakotay here.”
“Dr. Gammet wants me to go back to the planet with him and be diplomatic. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t find any sign of Riker and Shelzane.”
“IGI on Padulla is probably deserted,” interjected Dr. Gammet. “People certainly went home to be with their clusters and familes.”
“Did you hear that?” asked Torres.
“Yes, we’ll keep looking,” Chakotay assured them. “They’ve got to be down there somewhere. You go ahead and be charming, and try to get some sleep, too.”
“Sleep? What’s that?” Torres strode onto the transporter platform and motioned to the white-haired doctor to join her. “Dr. Gammet, let’s go have dinner.”
“I shan’t be joining you,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m certain that Prefect Klain won’t mind.”
Torres nodded to the Bolian on the controls. “Put us down in front of IGI.”
A moment later, they materialized on the landing pad in front of the immense green pyramid and its protective walls. It was night, and a foggy chill engulfed Torres and made her shiver. She glanced around, expecting the street to be deserted at this late hour, but several onlookers pressed forward, eager to get a look at her. A hovercraft parked on a side street suddenly rose into the air and cruised toward her.
“Good night, my dear!” called Dr. Gammet, as he bustled off to the entrance of the IGI complex.
A whooshing noise grabbed her attention, and she turned to see the hovercraft settle onto the landing pad. At the controls sat Prefect Klain, beaming at her with his perfect teeth, olive skin, and windblown ebony hair.
“They said I was crazy to wait out here, but I knew you would come back.” He tempered his joy with a concerned frown. “How goes the battle?”
She walked over to the hovercraft and climbed inside. “The researchers seem happy—they’ve made a connection with Santos as a possible origin point.”
“Oh, really? That’s good, is it?”
Torres shook her head puzzledly. “I keep wondering, Why Helena? Why now? It’s awfully convenient.”
“Convenient for whom? Not us.”
“For someone who didn’t want much interference.” Torres shook her head. “Never mind. It will be good to get some food. Where are we going?”
“My home. The Dawn Cluster.” He lifted a box off the floor of the hovercraft and handed it to her, smiling sheepishly. “This is a gift, but it’s actually not a gift. It’s practical. I promised to give you Helenite clothing, but I don’t really see you shedding your uniform. If you wear this, you’ll pass as one of us—in case we encounter Cardassians.”
She lifted the top of the box and was stunned to see what appeared to be a handwoven coat made of blazing magenta, purple, and green threads, woven together in a tapestry depicting island life. It was at once the most artistic and ostentatious piece of clothing she had ever seen.
“Thank you. This isn’t really necessary.” She couldn’t hand it back—the question was whether she would put it on. Wearing the fantastic robe, she would look like a queen from some old human fairy tale.
She had to admit, it was rather chilly on this foggy night. Not a star was visible in the gray sky, and the marine layer hung in the air like a damp mop. Torres shivered, stood up, and put on the coat. The natural fabrics were surprisingly warm, yet lightweight, and the wrap flowed down to her knees like a purple waterfall.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, realizing that for the first time.
“No, you are beautiful,” Klain corrected her. “The coat pales in comparison.”
B’Elanna sat down, at an unusual loss for words. “What will we have to eat?”
“Anything you wish,” answered Klain, working the controls. The hovercraft lifted gracefully off the pad and headed down the street. For some reason, Torres was glad to get away from the imposing pyramid.
“We’re mostly vegetarians,” Klain continued. “And of course we eat seafood, but we have replicators if you desire gagh, or whatever.”
Torres bristled. “I don’t eat gagh.”
“I see.” He piloted the open-air craft down a deserted cobblestone street lined by chic shops and quaint dwellings, topped by ornate walls and roomy balconies. Flowers and vines bloomed from a profusion of pots, boxes, and small plots, and their scents mingled and hung in the fog like incense. Some of the blooms were so vibrant that they glowed right through the fog. Torres looked down at her gaudy coat and realized where the inspiration came from.
In due course, they turned down a street lined with more stately homes—mansions surrounded by high walls. On this street, the fog reminded her of pictures of Earth in the nineteenth century—places like London and Paris. It seemed like ambassadors row, with houses that were too impossibly grand for one person.
They stopped in front of an intricate wrought-iron gate, and a servant rushed from an alcove to open the door for her. Even before the hovercraft had settled to the ground, he was holding the door open and bowing halfway to the ground. After Torres stepped down, the footman remained in this obsequious position until Klain had also exited from the craft. She couldn’t help but notice that the servant appeared to be a full-blooded Coridan.
“Any instructions, sir?” asked the servant, staring at the ground.
“Go ahead and charge her up, Janos. I won’t be going out again tonight.”
“Very well, sir.”
Torres wanted to ask Janos how he had fallen to this lowly position in life, but she remembered that she was expected to be diplomatic. This had to be the one job in the galaxy for which she was least suited.
Klain placed his palm against a security scanner, and the gate swung open. He smiled warmly at Torres and motioned her to place her hand on the scanner.
“Why should I be scanned?” she asked curiously.
“All guests need to register,” he answered blandly.
Torres nodded. “Oh, it makes sure I’m of mixed blood.”
“Due to the late hour, you won’t see the club at its finest,” said Klain, ignoring her comment. “But there should be a few night birds up at this hour, and hopefully we can roust a cook to make us a meal.”
“I don’t want to put anybody out,” she protested, imagining some poor servant being dragged out of bed to tend to her culinary needs.
“Our cooks would fight for the right to serve you,” Klain assured her. To B’Elanna, that thought was more frightening than the idea that they would be forced to serve her.
They walked along a rustic stone sidewalk that meandered through a garden bursting with blossoms and flowering vines. The perfume of the flowers was almost overpowering, and it mingled with the unmistakable scent of food—real food—cooking on a real oven.
“Do you see,” said Klain with a smile, “they remembered you were coming. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole house stayed up to greet you.”
Looming ahead of them in the fog was the mansion, which had to be four stories tall and a hundred meters wide. The ornate building had giant columns, broad porticos, and balconies on every floor, and it was as large as most government buildings on Earth. The house was certainly big enough to house hundreds of people, not counting servants.
They ascended a wide stone
staircase and passed between two massive columns. From the open door came the sounds of laughter and strange music played on a reedy string instrument, like a zither. A doorman bowed politely to them as they entered, and Torres noticed that he was unique, not a uniblood. She recalled what Klain had said about unibloods not even being allowed into the building. They needn’t apply even as servants, unless they were content to park hovercraft.
They entered a foyer that was decorated with gaudy velvet furnishings, lamps with stained glass and tassels, and numerous hologram portraits morphing continuously on the walls. From the incredible array of faces on the ever-changing portraits, B’Elanna assumed they were past members of the Dawn Cluster, going back hundreds of years.
Word of their arrival spread quickly through the sumptuous club, and members began to emerge from various dining rooms and bars that opened onto the central foyer. They approached Torres with reverence and joy on their faces, and the music and conversation faded away. B’Elanna wanted to crawl into a shell, or at least a dim engineering room. Instead she was wearing a coat that glittered like the dawn, and dozens of Helenites gathered around her, awe in their eyes.
“Yes, she is as beautiful as we heard!” proclaimed a tall dowager as she gingerly approached Torres. The older woman held out a clawed hand, and B’Elanna had no idea what her ancestry could be. Still she took the proferred appendage, which seemed to be the expected thing to do. At least the other Helenites murmured and nodded their approval.
“The Dawn Cluster is deeply honored,” said the older woman with a respectful bow. The others applauded this statement with gusto.
Klain stood behind her, beaming like a proud father. Torres could not believe all this fuss and attention was for her, and she fought the temptation to laugh it off or make a snide comment. She had to be diplomatic, which meant bowing and smiling while several dozen strangers gushed over her.
We’re risking our lives to save you people! she wanted to yell at them. But you’re hung up on the accidental circumstances of my birth.