“I’ll consider it, too,” promised the first officer. He couldn’t help but to smile as he backed toward the door. “I’ll file my log later. There’s plenty to do right now.”
Admiral Nechayev nodded in appreciation.
In the austere brig of the Sequoia, the two Romulans stared sullenly from their cells at their visitors, Nechayev, Teska, and Regimol. Even if the prisoners seemingly stood in the same room with their captors, they were held at bay by invisible force-fields. They paced briefly in their recessed quarters, glaring at those who had come to interrogate them. Teska found their behavior fascinating.
“You can torture me if you wish,” said the older Romulan, who [184] called himself Jerit. “I’m not telling you anything. I don’t know anything.”
Nechayev scowled. “So you went to Torga IV on vacation, and to take a tour of the temples. You won’t even admit you were searching for a portable Genesis emitter?”
“I don’t know about such things,” muttered Jerit, turning away.
Nechayev shrugged and turned to her colleagues, whispering, “Play along with me.”
Both Teska and Regimol nodded, although the Vulcan hoped she wouldn’t be asked to lie.
The admiral moved closer to Jerit’s cell and took a friendlier tone. “Consider speaking of your own free will, and we’ll protect you afterwards. But if we have to use a mind-meld, we’ll learn everything you know—and the answers to more questions than we care to ask. Then we’ll return you to your superiors, telling them everything you told us.”
Jerit lunged at the admiral and bounced off the force-field, landing on his rear and skidding across the cell. He bared his teeth and glared at the gray-haired woman, while she merely strolled to the adjoining cell to confront his young associate.
“Regimol,” she asked, “what is the League of Assassins likely to do to this one, when they find he has told us all their secrets?”
“Target practice,” suggested the Romulan. “Perhaps medical experiments. Or they might harvest his organs—they do with most condemned prisoners.”
“If you speak to us,” insisted Nechayev, “you can still limit what you tell us. If we use the mind-meld, we’ll find out everything.”
“We’re trained to resist a mind-meld!” shouted the young one.
“Shut up!” barked his superior.
“Teska is a priestess on Vulcan,” said the admiral, “and she’s been a master of the mind-meld since she was a child. Yours would be easy compared to the work she’s been doing on Lomar. Isn’t that so, Teska?”
The Vulcan nodded. “That is so.”
Nechayev moved toward the door and motioned her associates to [185] follow her. “So we’re going to give you a few minutes to think about it. You can act independently, you know. If one of you wants to talk freely, we’ll protect him, and we may be lenient to both of you. Or we can use the mind-meld. It’s your choice.”
Once outside the brig, Nechayev marched briskly into an adjoining control room, where she told the guard, “Put them on screen.”
“Yes, Sir.” The guard did as ordered, and soon they could observe the two Romulans arguing with each other in hissed whispers. The young one seemed to want to talk and save himself.
“Shall I clarify the audio?” asked the guard.
“No, this is fine,” she answered with a smile.
“Admiral, I will not force a mind-meld against someone’s will,” declared Teska.
“You won’t need to,” said Regimol with amusement. “Old Bakus here is a master of this fine art. She could be a Romulan.”
The admiral pointed to the screen and frowned. “The leader has calmed the young one down. They’ll probably resist another round, and we’ll have to go to the next step.”
She turned to the beefy guard in the red shirt. “Ensign, get a phaser, set it to heavy stun, and if I order you to fire, don’t hesitate.”
“Yes, Sir,” he answered, jumping to his feet and drawing his weapon. Carefully, he checked the setting, while Nacheyev drew her own phaser and checked it.
“You’d better call sickbay and send for a medteam, just in case.”
“Yes, Sir.” He worked his board briefly, then the admiral motioned her entourage to follow her.
Once back in the brig, they again confronted the pair of Romulan prisoners. “All right, which one of you would like to talk to us first? We’ll make sure to have dinner sent up while we’re chatting.” Nechayev smiled pleasantly.
The two prisoners looked at one another, then marched defiantly to their bunks and sat down. After they did nothing but stare at their [186] hands for several seconds, Nechayev went on, “Ensign, turn off the force-field in cell one, on my mark. Regimol, cover me.”
The guard went to the small wall panel which controlled Jerit’s cell, while the admiral strode up to the defiant Romulan. Leveling her phaser, she took point-blank aim at him from two meters away. He looked like he wanted to dodge or somehow resist, but there was also fear etched in his face.
“Last chance to talk willingly,” said the admiral. “After this, we just take whatever is in your brain—every murder, every sexual encounter, and every silly dream.”
He spat at her, but the spittle sizzled brightly on the force-field. The admiral waved her hand at the ensign and took aim. As soon as the force-field dropped, she drilled Jerit in the chest, and he slumped to the deck. It was the most cold-blooded thing Teska had ever seen, although logically she knew the Romulan wasn’t hurt. The Vulcan realized that getting on the wrong side of the diminutive admiral was a bad idea.
“Gentlemen, bring him along,” said Nechayev calmly.
Regimol and the guard entered the cell, grabbed a leg apiece, and rudely dragged the Romulan across the deck toward the door. The young one tried to be stoic, but he ended up leaping to his feet and watching from the front of his cell. All he saw was the two males dragging his comrade out, while the females followed.
In the corridor, they were met by a puzzled medical team, who gathered around the unconscious Romulan. “He’s only phaser stunned,” explained Nechayev, “but I want you to give him something that will keep him unconscious for an hour or so. And I want him to wake up confused.”
“That’s highly unethical and irregular,” muttered one of the medical workers, looking indignant.
“Then I’ll just keep shooting him with my phaser,” said Nechayev. “Whatever you think is better for him.”
That threat forced the medteam to confer and decide what to load into a hypospray. While they dealt with the prisoner, Teska [187] moved closer to Nechayev and whispered, “I do not understand the point of this.”
The admiral took her arm and walked her down the corridor, out of the prisoner’s unconscious earshot. “When we drag him back to the brig in an hour, the young one will think that we know everything already. So his resistance will be weakened, and he’ll talk. In fact, he’ll go with us easily while the other one is still unconscious and can’t see him.”
“And if this ruse does not work?” asked Teska.
Nechayev looked evenly at the Vulcan. “Then I’ll order you to perform the mind-meld on one of them.”
“And if I refuse?” The Vulcan looked at Nechayev, expecting an answer.
“Weren’t you the one who criticized me for sitting around and doing nothing? Do you want to be the one who fiddles while Rome burns?” The admiral walked a bit further down the corridor, and the Vulcan dutifully followed. “Out of respect for you, Teska, I haven’t forced you to do a mind-meld while we could try another method. But if we have no choice, I expect you to obey my orders, like anyone else on this crew.”
“You are not obeying orders,” pointed out Teska.
“And you’re not winning this argument,” answered the admiral. They turned back to see Regimol strolling in their direction.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said with a smile. “You’ve got the young one right where you want him. He’s pacing furiously—you can se
e his mind working.”
“Regimol, you and I have a crew to brief for your mission to Bajor,” said the admiral. “I want them to understand that you’re in charge. Teska, I would appreciate it if you could stay here and keep an eye on things. We’ll be back in an hour.”
She nodded, and the admiral and her thief walked toward the turbolift. Teska turned and looked at the unconscious Romulan lying in the corridor, surrounded by medical workers.
[188] “He’s out, and his condition is stable,” said the doctor who had protested earlier. “What do you want us to do with him? Just leave him in the hallway?”
“Yes, give me a medical tricorder,” said the Vulcan. “I can check his vital signs—I know what the norm is.”
Still looking disgruntled, the doctor handed over a tricorder, then he rounded up his crew and left. Teska still had the security officer with her, and his phaser was set to heavy stun. She sat on her haunches and gazed at the prisoner, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully, despite everything.
The Vulcan fought the temptation to reach a hand to his face, meld with him, and steal the contents of his mind. In truth, the mind of a Romulan was just so ugly—so perverted in its values—that she dreaded going into one. For a Vulcan, it was like Jekyll meeting Hyde, the hero facing his evil twin. And she assumed this craven assassin’s mind was worse than most.
Teska shivered as she stood up, deciding that she would perform the meld if so ordered. If he knew anything about her mate, she would find out then. It was really the only logical thing to do.
Captain Picard lay asleep, his arm draped over the Romulan commander, and she had to squirm slightly to avoid waking him as she rose. Kaylena swung her lean frame off the bed and put on a plush red robe before she scurried into the adjoining room. She paused briefly before a mirror to pull back her long black hair, which was hopelessly tangled, and she glimpsed her pointed ears. The woman still couldn’t get used to them, and she would be happy when she could go back to her own ears and skin color.
Her door slid open with a hiss, and she gasped, startled. A stooped Romulan female with a streak of gray in her severe bangs stuck her head into the room. “Is he asleep?”
Kaylena nodded. “Yes.”
[189] “Get dressed and step into the corridor. I want a little briefing before he wakes up.” The older woman vanished.
“Yes, Sir,” answered the younger woman glumly.
A few moments later, Kaylena stood in a deserted corridor with a woman a head shorter than her. Even though they were dressed in identical uniforms, it was clear that the elder, wizened Romulan was in charge. They could talk freely, because this section had been closed off to regular personnel while Captain Picard was onboard.
“Have you talked about Genesis?” asked the elder.
“Yes,” answered Kaylena, “and I don’t believe he knows anything about it. He’s been very forthcoming—I believe their interest lies in the anomaly which claimed the ships, not Genesis.”
“Then why did he keep asking us about it?”
The younger one shrugged helplessly. “You know, humans are like Ferengi—they love to bargain. When we demanded the prototype suits, he demanded something in return—something he guessed we had. That gave him a chance to save face and buy time. I’m convinced he didn’t really know we had it, and that he’s focused on the anomaly. Or he was ... until now. By the way, he wants the prototype suits back to enter the rift, and I think it’s a good idea.”
The elder laughed. “You think it’s a good idea? You’re just an actress hired to play a part, and shed some tears. Elasian tears—if we could somehow duplicate them.”
“But you can’t,” said the Elasian snidely. “I think you’ve wasted me on someone who can’t help you. He’s hopelessly in love with me, would do anything for me, but he’s just the captain of one starship. And he’s not thinking about Genesis at the moment.”
The stooped woman cleared her throat and considered the beautiful Elasian. “Just what is he thinking about?”
She sighed at looked at the closed door. “He’ll be obsessed with me for some time. His crew will probably notice a change in him. So if there’s something you want to get out of this liaison, you had [190] better tell me about it fast. Or let me end it. He’ll be heartbroken, but he’ll live.”
“Keep going with it,” ordered the wizened commander, shuffling down the corridor. “We’ve invested this much trouble. When he awakens, tell him that we’ll return the prototype suits and let them risk their lives in that blackness. We want to keep their good faith, don’t we?”
“Thank you, Commander,” said the Elasian with a nod of her head.
After her superior left, she reentered her quarters and paused in front of the mirror to arrange her hair in the severe Romulan style. The hair was a fraud, just like her, but it didn’t matter because the captain was hers. Even if she told him the truth, he would still love her.
She padded softly to her bed, where her lover had not stirred. “I tried to protect you, Jean-Luc,” she whispered to the sleeping human, while gazing at his slim, well-toned body. “I didn’t pick you for this—they told me to do it. We made a mistake, and I’m sorry.”
A tear trickled from her eye, and she angrily intercepted the drop with her fingers and wiped it on her tunic. “I hate myself,” she muttered. “I’ve sold my love too cheaply. And I do love you, Jean-Luc. I didn’t mean to, but I do.”
fifteen
On the Enterprise’s main viewscreen, the blackness ebbed and flowed gradually, like some kind of opaque amoeba, blotting out the entire starscape behind it. In front of this monstrous apparition floated various shimmering clouds of radiation-soaked debris—detritus of two smashed starships and the unidentified flotsam from the rift. It looked like an ugly wound, thought Beverly Crusher, as she stepped off the turbolift and walked the center of the bridge.
Will Riker turned to look at her with some concern. “He’s not back yet,” said the first officer.
Beverly tried to treat this news cavalierly. “It’s still time for you to be relieved, Will. How long has he been on the Javlek?”
“Six hours.”
She nodded sagely, as if that meant something, when all the time she was afraid to admit what it meant. “The captain can take care of himself.”
“They’ve sent word that he’ll be back soon,” said Riker hopefully, “and that he’ll be bringing the Brahms suits with him. So the trip has accomplished something.”
[192] “I’m sure it has,” answered Crusher, trying to keep the sarcasm to a minimum. “We just seem to be mired in quicksand here, and we don’t know which way to go. I don’t want to experiment with Deanna, especially if the captain has other pursuits. I mean, other ideas—” She gave up stammering and looked down at her clenched fists, which she loosened immediately.
He gave a big sigh of relief. “Oh, good ... that takes a load off my mind.” The big man glanced up at the gaping, quivering maw hovering in space—it seemed to be breathing, like something alive. “We could deal with it, if we could deal with the radiation. But we haven’t even identified it yet.”
The doctor patted him on his beefy shoulder. “Go grab Deanna and get some dinner. She’s in her office. I’ll let you know as soon as he returns.”
“Okay,” said Riker, glancing back at the dark anomaly on the viewscreen. “Now we know that somebody will be taking a space-walk into that thing, and we had better start planning for it. Computer, transfer control of the bridge to Commander Crusher.”
The computer responded affirmatively, and Riker nodded to the bridge staff as he strode to the turbolift. A moment later, Crusher was in command of the Enterprise, which entailed waiting for the captain to return and the anomaly to change for the worse. It seemed no wonder that they were all on the verge of going crazy.
“Daddy! No! No!” cried Suzi as she ran around the couch in Ogawa’s quarters. Then the six-year-old cut loose with a wild giggle and kept charging as her bungling father plod
ded after her, waving his hands like an inept gorilla.
“I’m gonna get you!” he roared, moving even slower. In exasperation, he suddenly turned and ran in the other direction, and Suzi had to reverse course, screaming with laughter. Still he managed to [193] catch the little girl, tickling her for a few seconds until she squirmed away. Collapsed on the floor, he panted and grinned happily, until he glanced at the chronometer on the desk.
“Suzi, I’ve got to go,” said Daddy.
“No, no!” insisted the little girl, jumping into his lap. He hugged her longingly for a moment, then reluctantly held her away as he scrambled to his feet.
“Mommy will be here soon,” she informed him.
“Like I said, Pumpkin, I can’t see your mommy yet,” answered her father, stepping hesitantly toward the door.
“Why not?” she shouted with a child’s determination to hear the logic behind parental edicts. “Why can’t you?”
He was out of excuses. “Do you want me to keep coming or not?”
Suzi frowned at him, trying unsuccessfully not to break into tears. When she began to blubber, he couldn’t help but to bend down and give the girl another hug. “I know it doesn’t make sense,” he explained, “but you’ll understand someday.”
“No, no,” she said, struggling to get out of his arms. “Mommy is unhappy, too. I’m going to tell her!”
His face grew dark, and his eyes narrowed. “Don’t do that.”
Suzi pulled away from her father, crossing her arms and staring at him with a disapproving frown. “It makes no sense for only you and me to be happy.”
“All right, all right,” he said with another glance at the time. “We’ll tell her next time I come, okay? But don’t tell her beforehand—this will be our little surprise.”
“Okay,” said the dark-haired child, judging that to be a fair bargain. “Next time, Daddy.”
STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book Three Page 19