by Peter David
Dr. Gammet shuddered. “The morgue.”
“Are those bins empty?” she asked.
“Probably.”
From behind them came a clattering sound, as a chunk of metal fell into the corridor. Loud voices sounded, followed by thudding footsteps. Tuvok immediately shoved the door shut, as Torres shined her light around the room, trying to find anything that could help them. Her beam caught the doctor opening a bin on the bottom row. It was empty.
Torres moved her light to the left to reveal a large sign on a pedestal—universal symbols for “Biohazard! Danger!” superimposed over an impressive skull logo. She grabbed the sign and placed it directly in front of the door, so it would be the first thing anyone saw when they opened the door even a crack.
A metallic thud sounded, and she turned to see Dr. Gammet climbing into the body locker. He waved just before he shut it and went into hiding. Tuvok walked briskly around the large room, stopping at a metal door that looked like one of the fake turbolifts. He began fiddling with his phaser; B’Elanna couldn’t tell what else he was going to do, because at that moment she heard voices on the other side of her door. She padded across the floor as quietly as she could, turning out her light as soon as she reached Tuvok. In absolute darkness, they flattened themselves on the floor and waited.
These Cardassians have come from Padulla, she told herself. The plague is bad there, and they may not even know where they are in this labyrinth.
Grunting, groaning, and scraping sounds issued from the darkness, followed by a clang as the Cardassians slammed the door open. A strong light struck the sign, and from a distance she could see it reflected on their shiny black heads, which were covered with gas masks. They shined their lights around the room, bouncing off the gleaming lockers, but they didn’t advance into the morgue. Despite the crisscrossing light beams, the room remained as still as the death promised on the sign.
Nearby an explosion sounded, and the ground trembled. When an officer barked orders, the lights retreated into the corridor. Amid grunting and groaning, the door was pushed shut, and the room was returned to merciful darkness.
Torres rolled over and turned on her light, shining it at Tuvok. He squinted at his phaser, making an adjustment to the weapon. “This will have to do. Please hand me your phaser.”
“But they may come back any minute,” she protested.
“I need our phasers to supply power to this transporter,” he replied. “We will exhaust our weapons, but it may enable us to reach the surface.”
Torres couldn’t argue with that, and she turned over her weapon. “Do you need a light?”
“No, I have my own. But you can help me get the door open. I have to find the override controls.”
Putting her hip into it, Torres was able to help Tuvok get the turbolift door opened. The enclosure was similar to the others, only larger, in order to accommodate gurneys. Tuvok used his tricorder to locate the access panel, then he set up his light. He removed a compact tool kit from his pouch and set to work.
Muttering under her breath about Cardassians, Torres went back into the morgue to unearth Dr. Gammet from his body locker. When she pulled out the drawer, he blinked at her. “Is it over?”
She whispered, “I’m afraid not. But Tuvok is trying to get us out of here. Are the turbolifts the only way up?”
“There are vents, but we’re so far down, I’d hate to imagine how long that would take.” He whimpered pathetically.
Torres scowled at him. “Is there anything else you haven’t been honest about?”
“No,” muttered Gammet. “We’ve reached the end—there’s nothing left to protect or hide. Now we’re dependent upon you to save us.”
“Great. You’ve got the plague, a mass murderer, and Cardassians running amok—and only the Maquis to save you.” B’Elanna Torres offered a hand to pull him out of the body locker. “Let’s hope your luck changes, or you’re going to need one of these for real.”
Gul Demadak laughed lustily at the antics of the Olajawaks, a troupe of comedians who followed centuries-old traditions in their costumes and routines. Although he had seen this troupe before, their clownish acrobatics had the old gul slapping his knee. The rest of the audience was just as appreciative, laughing and applauding in all the right places. Until he had gotten to the theater, Demadak hadn’t realized how much he needed this evening of diversion. Considering what he had been through lately, it was understandable.
Besides, he always enjoyed coming to the Primus Theater, an outstanding example of a baroque period in Cardassian architecture. With its numerous statues and busts, thick velvet curtains and chairs, and intricate murals, the Primus looked nothing like most of Cardassia’s gray, utilitarian buildings. It always seemed a bit naughty to come here, particularly since the Primus had once been used for more lascivious entertainment. He had a private box, of course, as befitted his station.
He glanced at his long-suffering wife and smiled. It had been her idea to come to the theater tonight, and he was appreciative. Although he mostly ignored the woman these days, she persisted in maintaining the semblance of a marriage. At times like this, thought Demadak, his marriage was comforting. Perhaps he would reward her by inviting her into his bed tonight.
In the middle of a guffaw, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Demadak turned angrily to see a wizened old usher. “What is it?” he snapped.
“Sorry to interrupt you, sir,” answered the old man, quaking in his boots. “We have a hail for you on our public communicator.”
“That’s ridiculous!” snarled Demadak. “Nobody knows I’m here. I’ll have your job for annoying me.”
The old man gulped and took a step back. “I’m sorry, sir, but he was quite insistent. He knew exactly where you were sitting, and he said that if you refused to come, I should mention a word.”
“What word?”
“Helena.”
Demadak stared at the old usher, and it would be hard to say which of the two men looked more frightened. He turned to his wife and manufactured a smile. “I’ll be right back, my dear.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing important.” Demadak rose quickly and followed the usher into the ornate lobby. With the show in progress, the lobby was empty, and the usher conducted him to a small booth near the refreshment counter. As soon as he entered the booth and closed the door, soothing lights came on.
“Demadak?” asked a raspy voice that had been electronically altered.
“Yes?” The gul swallowed hard and balled his hands into fists.
“Do you know who this is?”
“I can guess. I don’t know why you should be bothering me here. I’ve sent you all the pertinent—”
“Silence!” roared the altered voice. “You presume to think you can fool me. Let this be a warning that I know where you are every minute of the day, and I know everything you do—and don’t do. Against my explicit orders, you’ve sent a fleet to Helena—to destroy it!”
Demadak lowered his voice, hardly believing they were discussing these matters aloud. “I am not the entire government of Cardassia,” he insisted. “I delayed sending ships for as long as I could, but the Detapa Council is up in arms. All they can think about is the plague and the Maquis—”
“No excuses!” thundered the voice. “I could find a million failures who make excuses, but you were chosen for your independence and ruthlessness. Sending a fleet to Helena endangers the entire experiment and my best operative. Now I will be forced to rescue my operative and end the experiment early—before your ships blunder in and destroy the planet. You had better pray to your gods that our records are recovered as well.”
“Or what?” snapped Demadak defiantly. “I don’t like to be threatened—even by you.”
“I never threaten,” said the voice with a steely calm. “I only promise. In fact, I promise you this—when you return home tonight, you will find your prized riding hound dead in its kennel, its throat slashed.”
“What!�
� wailed Demadak with a mixture of outrage and horror.
“And the next time, it will be your grandson, or your daughter. Or you. Do I make myself clear?”
The gul started to protest that his estate was protected, under high security—that they couldn’t have gotten in and killed his prized hound, Marko. Then he remembered with whom he was dealing. “Yes, it’s clear,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
“Good. You have to delay the destruction of Helena as long as possible. Exaggerate the number of Maquis vessels, if you must. I’ll inform you when it’s safe to proceed. And call off your garrison—they’re wreaking havoc with my operation.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Demadak in a hoarse whisper. He wasn’t going to mention that he might not be able to hold off the fearful cowards on the council or in Central Command. They could always replace him with someone more amenable. But his benefactor knew that and was counting on Demadak’s considerable political skills.
“Don’t keep anything hidden from me again,” warned the scratchy voice. “Good-bye.”
When the gul stepped out of the booth, he finally unclenched his fists and found that his palms were clammy and sweaty. Few beings had such an effect on him.
Still in a daze, he returned to his seat in his private box. His wife smiled at him and pointed to the frantic players on the stage. “You missed the funniest part,” she said, “when the harlequin tries to punish the servants.”
“Yes, I like that,” he replied absently.
When the rest of the audience howled with appreciation at a particularly wild stunt, Gul Demadak turned his attention back to the performers. But he was no longer able to laugh.
A light flickered on inside of the transporter/turbolift in the bowels of the darkened IGI complex. Tuvok motioned to Torres and Gammet to come inside. “Hurry,” he urged. “We only have a few seconds.”
They did as they were told, although Torres kept her light shining on the empty morgue and the door that they had forced open to get in. Although she hadn’t seen the Cardassians since their brief visit, she had heard them ransacking nearby rooms. They couldn’t be far away, and this sudden burst of power might alert them.
“Stand in the center,” ordered Tuvok, reaching into the access panel. Torres could see their two phasers, jury-rigged to the circuits, with Tuvok about to connect two couplers.
“Are you sure this is going to work?” asked Dr. Gammet doubtfully.
“No,” answered Tuvok as he continued to work.
“Then maybe we should—”
Suddenly there was a crash and the sound of angry voices. Torres peered out the door of the turbolift and could see three brawny Cardassians pushing open the door to the morgue. One of them pointed at her, and she quickly killed her light.
“Hurry!” she warned Tuvok.
“That is my intention.”
The Cardassians stormed the morgue in force, and their lantern beams crisscrossed the room like a laser show. A phaser beam streaked over Tuvok’s head and blasted a hole in the wall, but that didn’t stop his nimble fingers from connecting more circuits and wires. Finally finished, the Vulcan took a step to join them in the center of the turbolift just as the lead Cardassians charged into view.
“Raise your hands,” ordered Torres, hoping a show of having no weapons would buy them a few seconds.
It did, as the lead Cardassian leveled his weapon but didn’t fire immediately. The odd feeling of disorientation gripped B’Elanna not a moment too soon, and the Cardassians were caught by surprise when the dormant transporter suddenly activated. They shouted and fired their weapons, but Torres, Tuvok, and Gammet disappeared in a curtain of sparkling molecules.
A moment later, they found themselves in the same place—the turbolift—only Cardassians were not threatening them with phaser rifles. The door was closed, and the lift was dark, forcing Torres to turn on her light. Tuvok immediately threw his tremendous strength against the door. “Help me, please.”
Torres and Gammet also pushed, but the Vulcan did the majority of the work as they heaved the door open half a meter. Torres squeezed through first and dropped into a crouch, warily shining her light into the blackness. With relief, she saw that they were in a jade-green corridor that sloped upward, and she motioned to the others to follow her.
When they reached the next door, Dr. Gammet was able to open it with a pass card. “The outer wall is on a separate circuit,” he explained.
Torres pointed her light back down the corridor, but she could see no indication that hordes of Cardassians were chasing them. After Gammet and Tuvok exited into the street, so did Torres, and she decided that warm sunshine had never felt so good.
She glanced around, but the streets appeared deserted. “Where are we?”
“Padulla, I believe,” answered Gammet, frowning at that conclusion.
“Let’s find some cover,” said Tuvok, striding toward a deserted store-front across the street. Torres and Gammet hurried after him.
Once they were off the street, she tapped her combadge. “Torres to Spartacus.”
“Seska here,” came the reply. “Where have you been?”
“I’m worried more about where we are, which is Padulla,” she answered. “Three to beam up.”
“It will take us a few minutes to get into position. Stand by.”
Torres tried the door to the shop but found it locked. She whirled around and kicked the shop door open, and it fell off its hinges with a cracking sound and crashed to the floor. “Let’s get to higher ground,” she ordered.
She led the way, not pausing until they had reached a stairwell which led to the roof. With a sigh, she halted their mad dash and slumped against the door. Gammet, who was panting heavily, sat on the top step, while Tuvok calmly took out his tricorder.
“I can find no lifesigns in the immediate vicinity,” he reported. “We appear to be safe for the moment.”
“Thank you for saving me,” breathed Gammet.
“You’re not safe yet,” countered Torres. “How do we find out whether Klain—or any of your competitors—started this disease?”
The little doctor scratched his white whiskers. “I know what Prefect Klain fears the most—that the plague will strike Dalgren. If that happens, his reaction might tell us something.”
“Hmmm,” said B’Elanna, wiping a sheen of sweat off her forehead ridges. Before she could say anything else, her combadge chimed. “Torres here.”
“Stand by to beam up.”
“Gladly,” she breathed.
All night long and all the next morning, Thomas Riker had been digging a hole on the north side of the island, using pots and pans as shovels. Fortunately, the sandy earth was fairly soft, and his makeshift tools were good enough for the job, if slow. Riker paused every few minutes to catch his breath and listen for sounds from the house. He had found an old dinner bell and had hung it by Shelzane’s bed, hoping she would use it to call him, if she needed him.
He felt guilty, thinking he should stay by her bedside until the end. But Shelzane had insisted that he pursue his latest escape plan, although it was the craziest one yet. They both knew that the clock was ticking for him, too, and he was beginning to feel tired. Hours of digging and no sleep were making him feel that way, Riker told himself, because he refused to acknowledge that he was infected by the disease. Nevertheless, a sense of urgency propelled him to crouch on his knees for hours on end, digging this monstrous hole.
The long hours paid off when he reached a metal box containing machinery—the valves, gears, and circuits that controlled the flow of fresh water from the pipeline into the house. While getting Shelzane a glass of water, he had realized that life on the island wasn’t static—fresh water came and went everyday. The pipeline came from somewhere, carrying water, then kept going…somewhere else. From observing the pipeline in the ocean, he guessed that the pipe itself had to be about two meters in diameter, large enough to accommodate him if it wasn’t completely filled with water. He would
n’t find that out until he broke into the pipe.
When he looked up to wipe the sweat from his brow, Riker spotted something in the crystal blue sky. Shading his eyes, he peered at what appeared to be a large white bird, soaring high above him. When he looked closer, he realized it was a sea-glider, similar to those he had seen floating in the bay at Padulla.
He bounded to his feet and waved frantically, yelling at the top of his lungs. The plane, however, never deviated from its course or altitude. Even if the pilot were looking directly at the tiny island, Riker told himself, it was doubtful he could see him from that distance. Nevertheless, spotting the glider gave him hope, just knowing that not everyone on Helena was dead or dying.
As soon as he began digging again, he heard the peal of the bell inside the house. Riker tossed down his tools, jumped to his feet, and rushed inside. Even before he reached the master bedroom, he heard horrible wheezing, and he rushed inside to find Shelzane writhing on the bed, gasping for breath. He rushed to her side and hugged her trembling body.
Somehow his presence calmed her, although her frail chest continued to heave with the struggle to breathe. He felt her hands grip his back, as if trying to hang on.
“I’m here!” he assured her. “I’m here.”
“I know,” she rasped. Shelzane gave him a final squeeze, then her fingers loosened and slipped from his back. Her entire body went limp, and he gently laid the Benzite on the bed. Despite the ravaged state of her body, she wore a look of peace on her face.
Riker stood up, wiping the tears from his eyes. Enraged, he yelled at the top of his lungs, “Are you happy—you bastards! What did you achieve by killing her?”
He whirled around, half expecting to see the little white-haired hologram, gloating at them. But no one was there—he was alone in the stylish beach house. A breeze ruffled the curtains and blew through the bedroom; despite the warm sunshine outside, the air was strangely cold.
It was time to go.
Riker wrapped Shelzane in her bedcovers and carried her to the lagoon. He unwrapped her body in the waist-high water, then tossed the sopping blankets into the water. As Shelzane had done for him, he slapped the water, calling the creatures. Gazing intently at the surf, Riker finally saw black shapes moving beneath the creamy blue, edging closer to the sounds. He climbed out of the water a few seconds before the sea creatures reached Shelzane’s body. The water began to churn, and he turned away.