[Star Trek TNG] - Double Helix Omnibus

by Peter David

  “Are you going to be able to do the job in Frobisher’s place?” he demanded.

  Kendrow’s mouth moved, but nothing audible came forth. Darg scowled in a manner that seemed to suck the light right out of the lab. “Well?” continued Darg. “Are you capable of speech at all?”

  “Probably not at the moment, Zolon.”

  The voice behind them, in contrast to the increasing bellow of Darg, was remarkably mild. The individual to whom it belonged likewise seemed mild in appearance. He was a Thallonian like Zolon, but whereas Zolon Darg was massive, the newcomer appeared quite slender, although it was hard to tell since he was wearing fairly loose black and purple robes. He had a neatly trimmed, yellowing beard, which indicated his age to anyone who happened to know that Thallonian hair tended to yellow with age rather than turn gray or white, as occurred with humans. His face was carefully inscrutable. Only his eyes seemed to burn with an inner light. The rest of his presence was so minimal that one’s gaze could easily have passed right over him.

  “Is that a fact, General Thul?” Darg said. But despite the defiant sound of the words, there was nothing in his tone that was challenging. It wasn’t out of fear, of course. It was more from a sense of respect. And it was quite possible that General Gerrid Thul was the one individual in the galaxy for whom Darg was capable of showing that sort of deference.

  “Well, look at the poor man,” Thul said. He crossed the room toward Kendrow, and didn’t seem to walk so much as glide. “You seem to have scared him terribly. Am I correct, sir?”

  Kendrow slowly nodded.

  “There? You see?” The General clucked sympathetically. “You know, Darg…you used to be a much calmer, understanding individual. The difficulties you’ve encountered in the past years have not mellowed you. You must learn to be calmer. You will live longer.”

  Darg smiled in a rather mirthless way. “I shall be sure to remember that.”

  “See that you do. Now, Mr…Kendrow, is it?” When Kendrow nodded, the one called Gerrid Thul continued, “Mr. Kendrow…you have been paid a significant amount to cooperate with us, have you not.”

  “Yes, sir. I have, sir.”

  “Articulate speech. You are capable of articulate speech. That is good, that is very good. Now then, Mr. Kendrow…since the good Doctor here,” and he tapped Frobisher’s corpse with the toe of his boot, “is not in any condition to provide assistance to us, it is important to know whether you are going to be able to continue in his stead.”

  “I’m…” He cleared his throat. “Do you really want an honest answer?”

  General Thul smiled in an almost paternal fashion. “Honesty is always to be preferred.”

  “Truthfully, I’m not sure. I tried to familiarize myself with all aspects of his work, but the Omega 9 was such a uniquely personal, and truly amazing, piece of work…I can’t pretend that I know or understand all the parameters and aspects that he brought to it. I know and understand the basic interface options, I can program the—”

  Thul stopped him with a casual gesture. “It is not necessary to go into details, Mr. Kendrow. Your honesty is appreciated. Is it safe to assume that you can aid us in transporting the key components of the Omega 9 to our ship, and that you will, at the very least, give us your best effort in adapting and understanding the possibilities this amazing device provides?”

  Kendrow’s head bobbed so eagerly that it seemed as if it was about to tumble off his shoulders. “Yes. Yes, absolutely, sir.”

  “That is good. That is good to hear. So, to summarize,” and he placed a hand on Kendrow’s shoulder, “you will help us…and we will allow you to live. And if you cease to help us, either due to lack of cooperation or lack of knowledge, why…you shall meet the same fate as Doctor Frobisher. Except your demise will be far slower, much more protracted, and will involve an impressive array of sharp objects. Do we understand each other?”

  Kendrow gulped deeply.

  Zolon Darg, for his part, smiled. For a moment there, he had been concerned that Thul was going to be entirely too sympathetic. He realized that he should have known better. After all, when someone was interested in obliterating almost all sentient life, as General Thul was, such an individual was not about to be concerned about sparing the feelings of one insignificant little scientist.

  “Well, Mr. Kendrow?” General Thul prompted once more. “Do we understand each other?”

  Kendrow nodded.

  “Well, then!” Thul said, and he clapped his hands and rubbed them together briskly, “let’s get to work, shall we?”

  And as they got to work, the distress call continued to issue forth, searching for someone…anyone…who might be able to save what was left of the day…

  II.

  COMMANDER WILLIAM RIKER felt as if all the eyes in the Ten-Forward lounge were upon him. He kept telling himself, however, that he was probably imagining it. He found a table off in the corner and signalled to the bartender that he’d like a drink. One was quickly produced and he proceeded to sip it in relative peace that lasted for a whole seven seconds.

  He glanced up as Lieutenant Palumbo looked down at him. Palumbo was half a head taller than Riker, with black hair slicked back and a rather open manner that Riker wasn’t quite sure how to react to. Palumbo clearly considered Riker something of a curiosity; one might even have said that Palumbo came across as being in awe of him, as if not sure how to respond to the presence of the Great William Riker aboard the Starship U.S.S. Independence.

  “So…what’s it like?” asked Palumbo without preamble.

  “‘It,’ Lieutenant?” Despite the breach of protocol, Riker couldn’t help but feel some amusement at Palumbo’s manner.

  Palumbo promptly dropped down into a chair across from Riker. “Being related to one of the original signers of the original Resolution.”

  “Well…Lieutenant,” Riker felt constrained to point out, “the Resolution of Non-Interference was signed nearly two hundred years ago. Granted, I’m related to one of the original signers. But it’s not as if Thaddeus Riker was someone that I spent a good deal of time with. In point of fact, he died more than a century before I was even conceived.”

  “Even so. Even so,” Palumbo’s head bobbed as if he were furiously agreeing and disagreeing simultaneously. “It must make you proud, right? Am I right?”

  Actually, Riker had never given the matter all that much thought. Riker had always considered himself somewhat self-sufficient. He was determined to carve his own career and obtain his own notoriety, and he wasn’t the type of person who rested upon the achievements of those who had come before him.

  Still…he had to admit that there was something to be said for it. He’d done a good deal of reading up on Thaddeus Riker as the bicentennial had approached, and the more he’d learned, the more impressed he’d been.

  “You’re right,” agreed Riker.

  Palumbo slapped the table. It shook from the impact. “See, I knew I was right!”

  “Is this guy bothering you, Commander?”

  Lieutenant Mankowski had come up behind Palumbo. During their shift, Palumbo operated conn while Mankowski was at ops, so they were accustomed to working tightly together. When Mankowski spoke, it was with a faint southern drawl. Riker couldn’t help but notice, to his amusement, that Mankowski was keeping one eye on his reflection in the observation glass nearby, running his fingers through his wavy brown hair to make sure that it was “just so.”

  “No, Mankowski. No bother at all.”

  “Thanks for being so concerned, Joe,” Palumbo said in obvious irritation. “What, you trying to embarrass me in front of the Commander here?”

  “Oh…please. You needn’t concern yourself about that, Lieutenant,” said Riker. “Really. It’s not a problem. To be perfectly honest, if I were in your position, I’d probably be reacting in exactly the same way.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear, sir. Very understanding of you.” There was one other chair at the table, and Mankowski sat in it. Ri
ker chuckled softly to himself as he saw that Mankowski straddled the chair in the same manner that Riker habitually did. “Look…to be honest, sir, there’s a goodly number of people on this ship who would love to bend your ear about all manner of things. Not just about your ancestor, but about you yourself. You’ve had a hell of a career, after all.”

  “It’s been…interesting.”

  “You’re being too modest, sir.”

  “Oh, yeah. Way too modest,” echoed Palumbo.

  “Now me,” and Mankowski tapped his chest, “I’m not that kind of person. The hero-worshipping sort, I mean. I think people have a right to be proud of their accomplishments, but that’s no reason to elevate them to some sort of bigger-than-life status. In fact, I was just saying the other day to—”

  From across the lounge, a crewman called, “Hey, Joe! Joe! Got a second?”

  “Hey!” Mankowski shot back, clearly annoyed. “Can’t you see I’m talking to Commander William T. Riker here? The William Riker?”

  The crewman held up his hands, palms out, in mute apology for butting in.

  Riker put a hand in front of his mouth and laughed into it.

  “It’s just that,” Palumbo jumped in during the momentary lull, “it’s just that, well…the truth is, I’ve been a fan of yours ever since I was a kid.”

  “A kid?” Riker couldn’t quite believe his ears as he stared at the young officer. “Lieutenant, for God’s sake, I’m not that old.”

  “Well…not a little kid,” Palumbo amended hastily. “Just since, well…” He considered it a moment. “Since I was a teenager.”

  That still seemed a hideous age discrepancy to Riker, and he said, “That can’t be right. I haven’t been at it that long…have I?” His voice trailed off on the last two words.

  “Oh, sure,” Palumbo said with a cheerfulness that Riker couldn’t help but find disturbing. “My dad was—is—in Starfleet, and he talked about officers who were on the fast track. He especially thought the crew of the Enterprise was top-notch.”

  Riker quickly did the math in his head and realized that Palumbo was exactly right.

  “Those were the good old days, huh, Commander?” Palumbo asked.

  “Ohhhhh yes. The good old days.” Riker was suddenly starting to feel as ancient as Thaddeus Riker.

  “Mike…I think you’re making the Commander uncomfortable,” Mankowski said cautiously, glancing from Riker back to Palumbo.

  “Nah! Am I? I didn’t mean to…”

  “It’s…all right,” Riker said. He generally had a fairly ready smile and it didn’t fail him this time either as he was able to appreciate the more amusing aspects of the situation. “It’s just that, well…” and he tapped his chest, “in here I feel like I joined the Fleet only yesterday. I’m not entirely sure at what point I went from eager young cadet to gray eminence. It’s a disconcerting transition, that’s all.”

  “Do you think Captain Picard went through the same thing?”

  “The captain?” Riker smiled puckishly. “Absolutely not. The truth is that Captain Picard was born forty years old. He didn’t have the time or patience for child or adolescence. He simply went straight to the status of ‘authority figure.’”

  “I believe it,” said Palumbo. “He came and lectured to one of our classes once. He scared the crap out of me. But…don’t tell him that next time you see him, okay?”

  “My lips are sealed,” Riker assured him.

  They chatted for a few minutes more, although Palumbo and Mankowski seemed more and more interested in crosstalk between the two of them, leaving Riker serenely to his thoughts. And, naturally enough, those thoughts turned to Thaddeus Riker.

  The truth was that the Resolution was indeed one hell of an accomplishment, and Thaddeus Riker had been one of the main architects. The Resolution of Non-Interference had been a sort of United Federation Bill of Rights. It had pulled together a number of fractured members of the United Federation of Plantets into a basic position paper that put forward, in language so plain and firm as to command their assent, the basic philosophies that the UFP hoped to pursue. Many historians felt that the Resolution was not only the turning point in the UFP’s early development, but the basics for some of the Federation’s most fundamental philosophies—including, most notably, Starfleet’s Prime Directive—had its roots in the Resolution of Non-Interference.

  Thaddeus Riker, one of the principal drafters of the Resolution, had affixed his name to it along with some fifty other representatives of assorted worlds, outposts and colonies. That important event had occurred nearly two hundred years ago, and a major celebration on Earth was in the works. Indeed, that was the reason for Riker’s presence on the Independence. The starship was en route to Earth anyway, and the ship had been instructed to pick up Riker and bring him along. For other officers, the easy assignment would have been considered something of a paid vacation. That was not the case with Riker. He thought it a colossal waste of time, and tried to convince Starfleet that this endeavor was worth neither the time nor the effort as far as his presence was concerned. He could think of a hundred more constructive things he’d rather be doing than putting in an appearance at some high-profile function, no matter how historically important that function might be. Unfortunately, as so frequently happened in cases like this one, Starfleet wasn’t able to come up with any.

  Which was how Riker had wound up aboard the Independence, being made to feel old by two young officers who seemed bound and determined to worship Riker to bits. They chatted on with Riker barely listening, and hoping against hope that something—anything—would distract them from the unwanted attention they were lavishing upon him.

  That was the moment that the yellow alert klaxon went off. Without hesitation, Mankowski and Palumbo high-tailed it out the door, as did the other patrons of the Ten-Forward. Within moments the place was empty, leaving a disconsolate Riker staring at the glass still in his hand. His very soul cried “Foul!” as he thought of where he was during an emergency as opposed to where he’d prefer to be.

  On the other hand…he was a guest. Guests should be, and are, accommodated whenever possible. And perhaps he was a guest who could lend a hand, presuming the captain was interested in the extra help.

  Couldn’t hurt to ask him, Riker reasoned. Couldn’t hurt at all…

  Captain George Garfield, a man of modest height but booming authority, looked surprised to see Riker striding onto the bridge. Garfield’s face had a craggy ruggedness about it, and his gray hair was so tightly curled that some felt it was possible to slice one’s finger open on it. “Is there a problem, Commander?” he asked.

  “No problem at all, sir. I just…” On the face of it, it seemed absurd to make the offer now that he was there. It was an insult, really, an implication that the captain was unable or unwilling to handle the situation on his own. First officer Joe Morris was watching Riker warily. He was a lean man with thinning hair and a foxlike face. He tended to smile a lot for a first officer, and he had a habit of taking pains to display his perfectly arrayed teeth whenever possible.

  Garfield smiled grimly and nodded in apparent understanding. “When there’s a red alert, you don’t exactly feel comfortable with the prospect of hiding down in your quarters, is that it?”

  “Exactly it, sir.”

  “Very well. As long as we remember whose ship this is.”

  There was a bit of a ribbing quality to the comment, but at the same time, a very clear, somewhat territorial warning. Riker didn’t have to be told twice. “I’m just a spectator, captain.”

  “Spectate from there,” Garfield said, indicating the vacant counselor’s chair. The ship’s counselor, Lieutenant Aronin, hadn’t been feeling particularly well as of late, and had been confined to sickbay under orders of the ship’s CMO, Doctor DiSpigno. “And don’t you worry. Once we attend to whatever’s going on, I assure you we’ll give you a smooth ride to your destination.”

  “Much obliged, sir.”

  Riker pro
mptly slid easily into the chair.

  “Talk to me, Mr. Palumbo,” Garfield said.

  Palumbo scanned the board and reported, “Distress signal, sir. I believe it’s coming from the Daystrom Institute Outpost.”

  From the tactical board, Lieutenant Monastero called, “Confirming, sir. Putting it on screen.”

  The image of a gentle-looking man appeared. But the background behind him was extremely strange. It didn’t seem to be an actual place so much as an environment of pulsing energy.

  “Good God,” said Morris. “What’s that?”

  “This is Daystrom Station, we are under attack, repeat, we are under attack,” said the man on the screen. “Any Federation vessel in the area, please assist. This is Doctor Elias Frobisher of the Daystrom Station, we are under attack, please assist…”

  “It appears to be computer generated,” Mankowski said. “Not an actual image, but one composed by a computer. Question is, why?”

  “No, Mr. Mankowski, that’s not the question at all,” Garfield told him in no uncertain terms. “The question is, ‘How fast can we get there?’”

  “At maximum warp…?” Mankowski did some rapid-fire calculations. “Three hours, eighteen minutes.”

  Morris had stepped over to the ops station and was glancing over Palumbo’s shoulder. “We appear to be the closest ship in the area, sir.”

  “Lieutenant, best speed to Daystrom.”

  “Aye, captain.” Mankowski immediately punched in the course, and the Independence angled sharply away from its then-current heading and headed with all possible alacrity toward the scene of the distress call.