STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book Three

by John Vornholt

  Sapped of energy, the Romulan’s body was as limp as a beanbag, and he bounced across the pavement and crashed into a trash can, spilling a family of snapping voles into the alley. Mustering all his willpower, he managed to shield his face, but the rodents kept fighting among themselves with mad squeaks. Some scampered away, and they seemed confused and disoriented. He took some comfort in being able to hear, because the footsteps behind them had definitely stopped.

  Jerit felt hands shaking him, and the touch seemed to bring back other sensory nerves. With effort, he rolled over and saw his young subordinate nodding reassuringly at him. “Well done, Sir.”

  The squad leader tried to speak, but only a grotesque mimicry of words came out of his mouth. His young apprentice reached into his boot for the handle of a dagger. “At ease, Sir. You’ll be fully recovered in a minute or two. Do you want me to go back there and slice their throats?”

  Jerit nodded weakly. He couldn’t voice all the good reasons for that, but any action which cut the enemy’s numbers and made them cautious was a good idea, especially when attempting to retreat.

  The subordinate nodded with determination and drew his assassin’s blade from his boot. He jogged into the dense shadows in the alley, where it was very quiet indeed, and where soon the voles would have an unexpected feast.

  “I bet we can take these Romulans,” bragged Chellac. “I bet they’re nothing.” He mimicked firing his gun as he ran between [154] dusty old hulks of shuttlecraft and machinery, playing soldier. They were taking an eerie shortcut among the junks, because their noble leader would only approach the west gate, requiring this route. Among these wrecks would be a good place for an ambush, thought the Ferengi, and he began to dash from hulk to hulk.

  “Lifesign readings are negative,” said Alon with a sneer as he consulted his tricorder. “Nobody can see you.”

  “They could see us with binoculars from that wall,” piped in Regimol, pointing toward the shimmering lights. “So let’s walk normally. Holster your weapons, or sling them over your shoulder.”

  “Aw, you people are no fun,” grumbled Chellac, fumbling with his assault weapon, which was nearly as big as he was.

  Picking up the pace, Regimol marched right up to the gate, which was cut crudely from a high fence of the same corrugated metal they saw everywhere. Barbed wire, with sparkling force-field emitters, was at the top. It was impressive for a place called Dinky’s, Chellac got the impression that security had just been upgraded. The Ferengi and the skinny Bajoran rushed to catch up with Regimol, but they stood in silence and let the Romulan make conversation with two seedy Bajoran guards.

  “That’s close enough,” said one of them, holding up his hand. His female companion held up a phaser rifle. “We’ve got no shuttlecraft to rent, buy, loan, or steal. We’re not taking passengers. If you’re on foot, go somewhere else.”

  “We are not refugees,” answered Regimol as he pushed back his hood to reveal his full Romulan splendor. “My shuttlecraft needs a part—a plasma injection coil.”

  The two guards looked uncertainly at one another, as if this meant something; then they looked worriedly at the yard they protected and the foreboding desert beyond the wall. “You people should get out of here,” warned the male guard. “Strangers have been asking about you all day.”

  [155] “Thank you for the advice. We’re going to pack up,” answered Regimol with a wave. Casually he asked, “How many others are back?”

  “Just one of them,” said the female guard. “He’s in the clubhouse, I think.” She took a portable device from her vest and worked it for a moment. A small door in the larger door slid open just wide enough for the visitors to enter single-file. Chellac could feel the dry static of the force-fields just waiting to power back on.

  “Did you bring more ale?” called the guard, leaning over the inner rail of the watchtower.

  “No, next trip,” answered Regimol.

  As they entered the yard, they were almost blinded by all the light. Most of the wattage was focused on the ten or so docked shuttlecraft, representing half-a-dozen different worlds. Customers, figured Chellac. Landing pads were also ready for action, as were the force-field towers and repair buildings, where robot workers sent sparks shooting into the night air.

  In the middle of all of this, the terminal stood like a blazing mountain of light, surrounded by armed guards. They were casual about their leisurely patrols around the yard; but they could afford to be, because there were a lot of them.

  He sidled up to Regimol and whispered, “I don’t think we’ll be able to beam out of here with all those force-fields.”

  “That’s true,” agreed the Romulan. “So we’ll fly out in our new shuttlecraft. Let’s go take a look at it.” He motioned for Alon to draw closer, and the three of them zigzagged a bit as if they were lost. While his entourage bumped into each other, the Romulan was carefully studying the docked craft, even though he appeared to be window-shopping.

  “There it is,” he whispered to his confederates, veering in the direction of a large shuttle parked out in the corner of the yard. As they walked, the Romulan opened his tricorder and began to take readings. “Don’t stop to look, just keep walking as if we’re new here—tourists, gawking at everything.”

  [156] They kept walking past a squat, twin-nacelled torpedo, which looked used and beaten. Oil was leaking from a gash in its side. Regimol looked up from his tricorder and whispered, “It’s a Danube-class runabout, adapted for civilian use. There’s no one onboard.”

  He closed up the tricorder and pointed elsewhere. “We used these ships in the Maquis, also modified for speed, like this one. It’s probably the fastest ship in the yard, but it has no weapons in order to keep a low profile. It’s either our quarry, or it’s Starfleet—but they would have left someone on board. This is a break, because I’m sure I can fly this.”

  “Oh, you weren’t sure you could fly the ship before?” muttered Chellac. “You know, for a mission with no danger, this is starting to feel awfully risky.”

  “Just relax—we’ll find that part you’re looking for,” answered the Romulan loudly, slapping him on the back. “Let’s go to that clubhouse we heard about.” As he walked, he lowered his voice to add, “I’m sure people are watching this vessel. Anyone who attempts to get in—even the rightful owners—will find it hard getting out.”

  “Oh, great,” grumbled Chellac.

  “That might be good for us. Our quarry will be in a hurry—even careless—when they get back. It’s not often you find a Romulan in a careless state.”

  “Who else is out there?” asked Alon, peering nervously at the well-lit shapes all around them. “You said Starfleet security?”

  “At a minimum,” answered Regimol. “That’s enough speculation for now—let’s see what’s real.”

  Regimol led them to the terminal, past the parts department and reception desk, straight into the raucous tavern, where laughter mingled with the scent of Romulan ale, which seemed to be on special tonight. What a surprise that was, thought Chellac. While a loud clientele hoisted mugs of the blue libation, other patrons sat in communication booths or gambled at tables in the back. There was even an advertisement for a holodeck, for more private pursuits. Times were good on Torga IV, thought the Ferengi; the town was [157] thriving in the teeth of disaster, like a good neighbor should. Despite the noise level and distractions, the crowd seemed to notice everyone who came and went. For good or ill, it was a see-and-be-seen kind of place.

  Hood down, Regimol darted stealthily through the revelers. His destination seemed to be the bar in the rear, and Chellac wasn’t sure what he was searching for until he saw another slender figure at the bar take notice and move toward him. It was all the little Ferengi could do to watch the action over the taller patrons, so he missed bits of it while he worked his way closer. The two Romulans seemed to connect very quickly, and when Chellac looked again, both of them were gone.

  The Ferengi finally found a spot out o
f the way, under a banister, where he could keep an eye on things. Because Chellac didn’t like Romulan ale, he took a swig of the water in his canteen and surveyed the crowd. They looked young—pilots and adventurers—plus the newly rich class of entrepreneurs. On a planet where transportation was scarce, a shuttlecraft yard had become the most exclusive place to be.

  Like Regimol, the Ferengi was now glad of all those guards around the place. But he didn’t have fond memories of Torga IV, and this little side trip was dredging up the pain of his ruin, his desperate escape, and his subsequent abandonment here. “I must be crazy to come back here,” he muttered to himself.

  “What did you say?” asked Alon. The thin Bajoran hovered over his head like a mother bird.

  “Do you see Regimol?”

  “No,” snapped his accomplice, hefting his shoulder bag. “Now what are we supposed to do? You know, these signal amplifiers are useless, and if we get caught with the—”

  “Quiet!” snapped Chellac. “We’re here now, doing this—let’s tough it out. I think he found the other Romulan and is talking to him. So far, he’s talked his way in everywhere, like he promised, so give him some credit.”

  [158] “Will he talk his way onto their ship?” asked Alon, scoffing.

  Chellac stood on his tiptoes and tried to point over heads. “They were at the left of the bar, in the back. Right where—”

  The Bajoran was much taller, and he peered over the bobbing heads with considerable success. Grasping the Ferengi’s shoulder, he cried, “I see him!”

  Then the tall Bajoran frowned and sucked in his breath. “No ... on second thought, it’s the other Romulan. He seems very agitated ... as if he’s looking for something. Perhaps our Romulan has given him the slip.”

  The Ferengi’s combadge beeped once, and his breath caught in his windpipe. “There’s the signal,” he whispered, gripping his cohort’s hand and pushing it off his shoulder. “He needs us. Are you ready to do your part?”

  “Right now?” asked Alon in amazement. “We just got here.”

  “Let’s obey orders, shall we? Even your boss agreed to this caper.” Chellac began to move toward that door they had entered, but he felt as if he were moving through mud. Neither his legs nor the crowd cooperated in helping him move.

  “This is crazy,” insisted his comrade. “I believe that’s what you said before.”

  The Ferengi sighed. “You know, Alon, if you want to bail out, this would be a good time. Give me the stuff you’re carrying, and I’ll tell everyone we lost you in the commotion. You can rejoin Tornan society, such as it is.”

  “No,” hissed the Bajoran, although he seemed to think about it for a moment.

  As they reached the door, two brawny humans stepped in front of them, blocking their way out. “We’d like to buy you fellas a drink,” said one of them jovially.

  “We hear you’re looking for parts,” said the other. “We’ve got them.”

  “No!” snapped Chellac indignantly. “You huuu-mans get out of [159] the way. We’ve wasted enough time in here.” He bowled his way past them, hoping Alon had enough sense to do the same.

  With a long arm, one of the humans grabbed Chellac’s thick collar and yanked him back into the tavern. When he landed on his feet, the two of them tried to steer him toward the back; they laughed in his ear and slapped him on the back like great friends.

  “You won’t need this,” said his big buddy, forcefully removing his weapon from his hands. “And you don’t understand—there’s a special room for Ferengi, and the owner is waiting for you.”

  He blinked up at the muscular human. “Dinky?”

  “None other. Who did you think owned this place, a huuu-man?” The big man grinned, while Chellac glanced worriedly over his shoulder to see how Alon had fared. He was shocked to see him smiling, surrounded by other Bajorans who appeared to be his friends. Maybe it was just that kind of place where strangers were made to feel welcome—it was certainly crowded enough.

  However, Regimol was trying to kidnap three Romulan spies without their help. It was hard to tell if that was a good or a bad deal for him. Chellac heard a shout, and he turned to see two big humans accosting Alon.

  As he hoped, several Bajorans leaped to the defense of their species when they spotted Alon grappling with a much larger human. When he didn’t let go, the fight escalated into a brawl, and Chellac tried to steer his abductor into the pile of swinging arms and legs. But the big human was strong and determined.

  With a pang of guilt, the Ferengi kicked the man on the shin and bolted away from him. With the other thug chasing him, he got just far enough to bang on his combadge and shout, “Chellac to base! Get us out of here! Help!”

  On the shuttlecraft over a kilometer away, Cassie and Yorka looked at one another as the Ferengi’s frantic voice echoed in the [160] cabin. When she turned away and reached for the instrument panel, the monk jumped up and cried, “Don’t answer him!”

  “I’m not,” she replied, changing the sensor readouts to reflect conditions inside the gate. “There are a ton of lifesigns ... and force-fields, too. We don’t stand a chance of beaming anyone in or out of there. It’s got better security than that prison where I used to work. So do you want to—?”

  The young woman turned to look at the Prylar, and she came eyeball to barrel with a Romulan disrupter. “Don’t do anything,” he warned her.

  Cassie rasped a nervous laugh. “You don’t need to pull that weapon on me. I know what you’re thinking, Prylar. You want to take off and ditch the others. Hey, I understand you ... I don’t know if I can trust that pointy-eared impostor, or the Ferengi either. Sorry to lose Alon, but the fewer, the better, huh?”

  He nodded, although he looked shaken by her blunt assessment.

  The young human took a breath and turned serious. “You put that weapon down right now and tell me that half of the money in our account is mine, and so is half of everything that comes in, until I decide to bail. And I do know where you’ve hidden those things. You need me more than I need you.”

  Yorka blanched at that statement, and his face clouded with doubt.

  “Swear by your Prophets that half of the proceeds are mine!” she insisted. “Or we can just sit here and let the Romulans, Starfleet, or whoever find us and take everything in the craft. I know where you’ve hidden the Orbs—maybe I’ll throw them out along with you.”

  “All right,” he said grimly, “I swear by the Prophets that half is yours. But we must do the will of the Prophets.”

  “Do what you want with your half,” she muttered. “And stow that weapon before you hurt someone.”

  Grimacing painfully, the Bajoran looked as if he wanted to say more, but he was drowned out by a voice crackling over the comm. [161] channel: “Mayday! Request immediate transport for one!” shouted Chellac.

  “After we pick up the money, we need a place to hide.” Cassie worked her board, and the thrusters started a low whine. “Best of all, since the mission has been blown, we can always meet them at the rendezvous and act as if nothing happened. That is, if we ever miss those idiots and they aren’t in jail.”

  “Yes,” answered the monk, sounding unsure of himself again.

  “Sit down, please,” said the pilot. Cassie lifted the shuttlecraft off the desert floor so fast that the Bajoran was hurled back into his seat. The dust storm swirled around the tiny craft as it punched its way into space.

  “Hey, we both get what we want out of this,” Cassie mused aloud. “You’re famous, and I’m rich. I say we find a graceful way to get out of the Orb business. One last act of good versus evil, as you always say, then we scoot. Maybe the Orb disappears again, so we don’t have to spend our days being chased.”

  “Yes!” exclaimed Yorka, suddenly brightening. “Let’s keep it simple—good versus evil. Then the Orb is retired.”

  “Then all of us retire,” said Cassie with a dreamy sigh.

  thirteen

  “Let us in!” demanded Jerit. The Ro
mulan shook his fist at the guards atop the watchtower at the west gate of Dinky’s Dry Dock. “You know who we are.”

  “Sorry,” said the Bajoran, craning his neck to look back at the center of the yard. “There’s a big crowd at the clubhouse, and the guards have been tripled.” He finally nodded to his partner. “Open it.”

  As the two Romulans passed through the pedestrian door, the guard leaned over the railing and whispered, “Like I told your buddies, I want you out of here.”

  They kept walking, feeling the urgency of their situation. “Our buddies?” asked the young Romulan.

  Jerit glanced at the brightly lit landing pads, buildings, and shuttlecraft. Nothing seemed amiss, except for the number of slow-moving guards. He whispered, “We’ve got to assume that people will be watching us, so we get in and take off.”

  “We don’t wait for Lanik?” asked the young Romulan with innocent shock.

  “No.”

  [163] “He might be in the clubhouse—”

  “We’re not chancing a roomful of strangers—I’m surprised we’ve gotten this far,” Jerit said testily. “Maybe he’s on board already.” They took a walkway branching off from the main path and were finally able to see the runabout in the distance. It seemed like an oasis of calm, but Jerit knew that was an illusion. If somebody wanted to stop them from taking off, they had better do it right now.

  As they approached, the youth got out his tricorder and did a scan of the vessel. His impassive face broke into a brief smile. “You were right. One Rotnulan on board.”

  “Finally ... we find him in the last place to look,” grumbled Jerit, although he felt considerable relief. Maybe Lanik didn’t retreat according to the book, but returning to the vessel was an understandable reaction.