[Star Trek TNG] - Double Helix Omnibus

by Peter David

  “Unfortunately,” the admiral told him, “your ancient civilization will have to wait a while, Jean-Luc. We want you to take the Stargazer to the Kellasian sector immediately.”

  The captain had already resigned himself. “I understand,” he answered.

  “Assess the situation and cool things down if you can,” said Ammerman. “If you can’t…well, the Benniari are our allies. You’re authorized to do everything necessary to keep them safe.”

  “Acknowledged,” Picard responded.

  “And while you’re there,” Ammerman added, “see if you can find anything out about this third party. Identifying and exposing it could be the key to peace in the sector.”

  And, perhaps, thought the captain, the key to opening the door to Federation membership as well. But he kept that observation to himself.

  “I’ll have my navigator set a course for the Kellasian sector,” he assured his old friend.

  A somber smile played about Ammerman’s lips. “Not quite yet. You need to come to Deep Space Three first. You’re scheduled for a passenger pickup—someone who has firsthand knowledge of the sector.”

  “Cabrid Culunnh?” Picard guessed. At the same time, he wondered what the Benniari would be doing on a starbase.

  Ammerman shook his head. “No, Jean-Luc. An ensign, currently serving on the Wyoming. Seems he’s the only one in the whole damned fleet who’s ever spent any time in that part of space.”

  The captain sat back in his chair, a little perplexed. “With all due respect, sir, why don’t you simply send the Wyoming on this mission? Why do you need the Stargazer?”

  The admiral sighed. “Don’t you remember who’s commanding the Wyoming these days, Jean-Luc?”

  Picard remembered all right—and he could see Ammerman’s point. The Wyoming was captained by a fellow named Karl Broadnax, whose pugnacious personality had given rise to a host of colorful nicknames—among them, “Broad-Sword” and “Battle-Ax.”

  To date, no one had dared inform Captain Broadnax of any of these nicknames. It wasn’t considered to be worth the risk. While Picard could think of no one he would rather have at his side in the heat of battle, Broadnax’s naturally confrontational attitude would be the last thing they needed in such a touchy situation.

  “Karl Broadnax,” said the captain, searching for words, “may not be precisely the individual the situation calls for.”

  The admiral smiled without reservation for a moment. “And with those words, you prove that you are becoming one of the best diplomats we have in Starfleet. Congratulations, Jean-Luc. You’re the indispensable man.”

  Picard grunted. “We’ll be there as soon as we can, sir.”

  Ammerman turned serious again. “Make your best speed, Captain. The Benniari will be grateful. Ammerman out.”

  A moment later, the screen went dark. Picard stared at his reflection in its shiny blackness for a moment.

  It seemed it was not going to be a rewarding day after all.

  Chapter Three

  PICARD WOULD HAVE LIKED to spend an evening on Deep Space Three with Admiral Ammerman and his wife, sampling the admiral’s wines and talking about old times. However, he thought—as he made his way to the Stargazer’s transporter room—the urgency of his mission required that he pick up his passenger and depart at once.

  Partway to his destination, he saw Lieutenant Commander Jack Crusher emerge from a turbolift and fall into step alongside him. The commander was tall and cleanshaven, with a wide forehead and deepset dark eyes.

  “Jack,” the captain said by way of acknowledgment.

  “Sir,” Crusher responded.

  During their off-duty hours, the younger man had become Picard’s best friend. But while they were on duty, Picard preferred for them to act as captain and second officer. That way, no one would ever have reason to question Picard’s objectivity.

  “So,” Crusher remarked, “an ensign serving aboard the Wyoming is the only person in Starfleet to have firsthand knowledge of this sector?” He turned to the captain. “An ensign?”

  “Which seems a little strange to you,” Picard suggested.

  “That it does,” the commander agreed.

  The captain smiled. “It might not seem that way if you knew that this is not the first time this ensign has been in Starfleet.”

  The other man made a face. “What do you mean? He resigned and then joined up again a few years later?”

  Picard nodded. “Precisely.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “But not unheard of.”

  “Any idea why he quit?” Crusher asked.

  “None,” the captain informed him. “But you’ll soon have an opportunity to ask him yourself.”

  They turned a corner and a set of doors hissed open ahead of them, revealing the Stargazer’s transporter room. Picard nodded to the transporter operator, who deftly manipulated the controls. The mechanism whirred softly and a brightness appeared in the air above the platform.

  Crusher frowned a little. “Exactly how long has this individual been out of the mix, Captain?”

  Picard spared him a glance. “Fifty years.”

  The commander looked at him. “Did you say…fifty years, sir?”

  “I did,” the captain confirmed. “He served under the twenty-third-century captain Hikaru Sulu.”

  Crusher’s forehead creased. “Then he’s got to be—”

  “A Vulcan,” said Picard.

  At that moment, the ensign in question finished materializing on the transporter pad. His erect bearing, calm eyes and cool demeanor proclaimed him a true son of his hot and hostile planet.

  “Welcome aboard, Ensign Tuvok,” said Picard. “Your expertise on this mission will be most useful.” He indicated Crusher with a gesture. “May I present my second officer, Lieutenant Commander Jack Crusher.”

  Crusher was a naturally gregarious fellow. Picard could see him struggling not to step forward with hand outstretched. Instead, imitating their new temporary crewmember, he inclined his head.

  “A pleasure, Ensign Tuvok,” said the commander. “I must say, I’m looking forward to hearing about your service on the—”

  “Captain,” Tuvok cut in smoothly, “our mission, as it was described to me, is one of the utmost urgency. I suggest we dispense with”—he straightened, unable to hide his contempt for the word—“pleasantries, and call an immediate meeting of your senior staff. It will be necessary to share information and plan a strategy.”

  Picard was a bit surprised. Vulcans were certainly not ones for idle chitchat, but most were not quite as…prickly…as Tuvok seemed. Courtesy was actually a logical concept, as it improved relations between species and individuals, and most Vulcans practiced it religiously.

  Tuvok, on the other hand, seemed to be more Vulcan than any of his fellow Vulcans. His posture had not relaxed a single iota.

  “Very well,” said the captain. “You make a good point, Ensign. Let’s go to my ready room and we can bring everyone up to speed.”

  Without further ado, Tuvok crossed the room and preceded Picard out the door. As the captain and Crusher followed, their eyes met—and the commander pretended to shudder with cold.

  Picard didn’t want to smile, but he couldn’t help himself.

  The world officially known as Debennius VI had the intimidating nickname of “the Last Stop to Nowhere.” Entering the shoddy establishment where he and his employer were scheduled to meet, Bin Nedrach had to admit that the ancient label was well deserved.

  Debennius VI was the outermost planet in a system that in itself was not exactly a well-known destination for space travelers. Any hint of a thriving community was manifested on the other planets, with the main cultural center located on Debennius II.

  Out here on the sixth planet, only the lost, the poor, and the incurably antisocial were welcomed. Bin Nedrach allowed himself a passing worry about how he was going to get out of here with both his latinum and his skin, but he quashed the thought.

&n
bsp; After all, his employer had seen to everything thus far. No doubt, he would see to Bin Nedrach’s safe departure as well.

  The establishment in question—if one could dignify it with that name—had none of the orderly precision of a Melacronai equivalent. It was dark and smoky inside, and patrons were visible only as dim shapes. Apparently, the owner of the place could not afford proper lighting. That, or else he or she simply didn’t care to install it.

  Reflexively, Bin Nedrach’s wide single nostril clamped shut against the stench of the place. He was mildly irritated by his body’s automatic response, but resigned himself to breathing through his mouth until he could get out of there. It was a small enough inconvenience, considering the amount of latinum he was about to collect.

  Finally, his eyes adjusted to the light. But once he got a good look at the place’s “customers,” his six-fingered hand fell automatically to the weapon at his side. For the first time since undertaking the mission, Bin Nedrach experienced a genuine flash of doubt.

  Was it possible that someone as powerful as his employer truly enjoyed a place like this? Or, the Melacron wondered, was this whole meeting some kind of set-up?

  Nedrach knew it would be easy enough…hire a hungry assassin, let him undertake a dangerous mission for you, and then lure him to this “Last Stop to Nowhere.” (Now that he thought about it, the nickname did have an ominous ring to it.) And finally, while your hungry assassin is salivating at the thought of how rich he’s about to become, have another assassin dispatch him.

  And who would suspect? No one.

  With that in mind, the Melacron looked around some more…but couldn’t discern any real threats. Finally, his gaze fell upon two humanoids in a dark, almost hidden corner of the room.

  Ah, he thought. He’s here. Relief flooded Bin Nedrach as he made his way as unobtrusively as possible in the direction of his employer.

  By the look of him, Mendan Abbis was already half-drunk. That, Bin Nedrach had to concede, was an improvement over the first time he had met Abbis—when he was completely drunk.

  The Thallonian’s eyes sparkled as they fastened on Bin Nedrach, and he smiled a lopsided smile. Heedless of who might see, Abbis beckoned to the assassin enthusiastically.

  The cold, silver eyes of the youth’s Indarrhi companion seemed to bore right through Bin Nedrach. He knew that the dark-skinned, white-haired Indarrhi possessed empathic abilities.

  Abbis had never introduced Nedrach to the Indarrhi, so the assassin had never learned his name. But not for the first time, he wondered how much the empath was picking up from him. Just to be safe, he calmed his thoughts, put even the most remote notion of treachery out of his mind, and approached the Thallonian with a smile on his face.

  “You,” slurred Abbis, making a stab at Bin Nedrach with a ruddy index finger, “are my favorite person in the entire galaxy!”

  “Am I?” Bin Nedrach asked.

  “Well,” the Thallonian amended, pouring himself another drink from a dirty pitcher filled with a potent-looking black liquid, “at least today.”

  “I’m delighted that my work pleases you,” said Bin Nedrach.

  The Indarrhi didn’t say anything. He just stared. It was unnerving, even to a hardened assassin like Nedrach.

  “Your mission was a complete success.” Abbis took a long drink, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Even better than I had hoped. Not only was the G’aha of Laws and Enforcements an important figure, he was a very popular one as well. I’d almost go as far as to say beloved.”

  That was Nedrach’s understanding as well.

  “His murder,” said Abbis, “has upset all Melacron everywhere. They’re starting to murmur about going to war with the Cordracites, even the most peaceful of them.”

  Suddenly, he grinned and leaned in toward Bin Nedrach with an air of conspiracy. “And do you know what the best thing about this is? The most delicious thing of all?”

  The assassin shook his head.

  “The G’aha of Laws and Enforcements was adamantly against war with the Cordracites. Isn’t that ironic?” asked Abbis. He began to laugh.

  “Quite so,” said Bin Nedrach.

  The Indarrhi was still staring at him, his thick fingers twitching. The assassin wondered what that meant.

  “You were hired with the intention of sparking a war,” said Abbis. “I’d say you succeeded.”

  Not for the first time, Bin Nedrach wondered why Mendan Abbis, a member of a species that had nothing to do with the conflicts between the Cordracites and the Melacron, so desperately wanted to spark war between those two civilizations. Clearly, Nedrach reflected, the Thallonian had something to gain from it…but what could it be?

  The Indarrhi’s glittering eyes narrowed slightly…and Bin Nedrach hastily redirected his thoughts to the latinum for which Mendan Abbis was fishing in his tunic pocket. That, after all, was the assassin’s only real interest in being here.

  And as the Thallonian’s latinum began to appear on the table in significant amounts, Bin Nedrach found it easier and easier to put the question of Abbis’s motives aside.

  In fact, he soon forgot about it altogether.

  Crusher at first thought the lounge was empty.

  After all, it was dark except for the dim glow that manifested automatically when the room wasn’t in use. If any of the commander’s colleagues had been there, they would have called for some real illumination.

  He called out, “Computer, lights.”

  When the room lit up, revealing another uniformed humanoid there, Crusher nearly jumped out of his uniform. Then he saw who it was, and he forced himself to relax.

  Tuvok fixed the human with his cool yet somehow piercing gaze. “Commander,” he said simply.

  “I’m sorry,” said Crusher. “I thought the room was unoccupied. I mean…there weren’t any lights.”

  The Vulcan arched an eyebrow. “Obviously,” he replied with what was clearly forced patience, “you were incorrect in your assumption. I prefer soft lighting whenever possible.”

  The commander felt a little awkward. He had never managed to be all that comfortable around Vulcans, and this one was…well, as Vulcan as they came. Even so, the man was a visitor on a ship full of strangers, and Crusher didn’t want to make him feel unwelcome.

  He caught sight of a cup of steaming beverage on the table. From the aroma, he judged it to be Vulcan spice tea. Crossing to the replicator, he asked Tuvok, “Care for a refill?”

  “No,” the Vulcan said. “Thank you.” His voice was every bit as icy as when he got off the transporter platform.

  The commander shrugged and ordered his own drink—key limeade, extra pulpy. He’d have a synthale for his second drink, but this one made him think of Beverly. She had introduced him to it on their second date, back on Earth. He had fallen in love with key limeade and her simultaneously.

  Bev, he thought. His bright, stable, yet passionate redhead. God, how he missed her. And little Wesley…he wondered what irretrievable moment of the toddler’s childhood he was missing today.

  Turning around, drink in hand, Crusher saw that Tuvok was still staring at him. He held a padd in his hands and seemed, even in his Vulcan calm, to have a shadow of annoyance on his face.

  “Care for some company?” the commander asked.

  “I would prefer to be alone,” replied Tuvok.

  Crusher ignored the comment. How was he going to get to know the ensign if they didn’t speak at least a little bit?

  He gestured to the padd. “Research?”

  Tuvok’s long fingers closed about the device ever so slightly. “No. I am fashioning a private message for my wife back on Vulcan.”

  The commander’s eyebrows shot up. Family? This iceberg?

  Well, it just went to prove the adage that there was a cover for every pot. Intrigued, Crusher decided to ignore Tuvok’s request for solitude for a few more seconds.

  Hey, he mused, everyone likes to talk about his loved ones. Could a Vulcan be any d
ifferent in that regard?

  “I’ve got a family myself,” said Crusher, slipping into the chair beside Tuvok. “A wife and a little baby boy named Wesley.”

  The ensign didn’t say anything.

  “Beverly is a Starfleet doctor,” the commander continued. “I’m hoping that after my stint here is wrapped up, we can work together on a starship. It’d be nice not to have to say good-bye to the wife and kids all the time, wouldn’t you think?”

  Tuvok’s expression didn’t soften, but he did put the padd down on the table and regard Crusher steadily. “I am a father as well,” he said. “I have three sons and a daughter.”

  Crusher smiled a gratified smile. Now we’re getting somewhere, he told himself. “Miss ’em, do you?”

  “Your statement implies sorrow or loneliness,” said the ensign. “You should know that I experience neither.”

  Spoken like a true Vulcan, thought Crusher. He sighed, wondering how to get past the brick wall that had been thrown up in front of him.

  “However,” Tuvok went on abruptly, “I do find that I am aware of their absence. I was fortunate enough to be with my children during their formative years. It is…regrettable that you are on such a lengthy mission and cannot be with your son.”

  Surprised, the commander regarded him for a moment. By Vulcan standards, the man was positively gushing.

  Crusher tried to conjure an image of Tuvok dandling an infant on his knee…and failed. What were Vulcan children like? Were they born with this level of control, like tiny, emotionless adults? Or were they as wild as human children—maybe even wilder, if the ancient Vulcan heritage of violent emotion was still present in their genetic code?

  It was an interesting question—and one that had never before occurred to the human. He asked the ensign about it.

  Tuvok shrugged. “Control must always be learned,” he said flatly. “That is the primary responsibility of a Vulcan parent. However, to most of our offspring, it comes as second nature.”