STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book Two

by John Vornholt

  A weeping woman stuck a large knife in his hands and said, “Can you cut them down?”

  Mot gulped, realizing that he had lost control of the situation, even as he had finally given the distraught survivors a reason to live.

  “Cut them down,” begged the woman, her hands wrapping around his hands, encircling the knife handle.

  He nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

  It was almost with relief that he sought the company of the dead inside the rectory. In truth, Mot envied them. They were the only ones not making demands, not girding for revenge, not eaten with fear and doubt. They were the only ones at peace.

  However, they were also defeated—failures, nothing but unnamed casualties of war. Maybe they could have been saved if he had just been stronger, or wiser. The barber shook his head miserably; he felt like a failure, too.

  The woman ducked her head into the door, looking distraught. “There are no stools—they’ve taken all the furniture outside!”

  “Stay here,” ordered Mot. “I’ll get the phaser.”

  He stepped back into the hallway and climbed the stairs to the attic, which was now empty and completely devoid of furniture. His father was descending the ladder from the roof.

  “Son!” he called with relief. “I was just coming to get you! What are they doing? They’re dragging furniture, clothing, everything they own outside! And the moss creatures are active.”

  “I need the phaser,” said Mot glumly. “Go on back up and keep watch. They’re starting a fire in the woods—let’s hope they start it far away from the building.”

  “A fire? Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “I’m not sure of anything anymore.” Once again, Mot descended the stairs, which were also clear for the first time since the wave struck. He returned to the rectory to find nothing changed, except that the woman who had given him the knife was sitting in the corner, weeping softly.

  “Which one is yours?” asked Mot, staring numbly at the suspended corpses.

  “That one,” she rasped, pointing a trembling finger at a large male.

  “I’m just going to vaporize them here,” said Mot, “with your permission.”

  “The words?” she said hopefully, twisting her hands together. “Who will say the words?”

  “I don’t know the proper chants,” said Mot. “If the Mother had returned to us ... but she hasn’t.”

  Seeing her flooded eyes, he took a deep breath and plowed onward. “Let us say this about these brothers and sisters who now swim in the Vein of Mystery: they were spared suffering. They died with their minds calm.”

  The woman wept even louder, and Mot checked his phaser. Starting with her loved one, he vaporized the hanging bodies, until there was nothing left in the room but a sickly smelling fog, and the buzzing insects.

  His shoulders hunched in dejection, the barber climbed the stairs and then the ladder, to join his father on the roof of the dome.

  It was bedlam all around the building, with numerous groups trying to start fires, some succeeding, most failing. A few were way too close to the building, and others were so far away that Mot feared for their safety. All of them made a great deal of noise, whooping and hollering. There was something so primal and satisfying about starting a fire that he couldn’t resent their elation. Fire represented warmth, relief, and sovereignty over their environment.

  Smoke drifted upward, polluting the haze. He saw two moss creatures stumbling through the underbrush, already on fire. They burned like walking torches. Where the flames were spreading, the underbrush shook with the movement of unseen animals trying to escape.

  “What is happening to us?” his father asked. “Now we’re the destroyers.”

  “As in most wars,” Mot said, miserably, “we have sunk to the level of our enemy.”

  They continued to watch the smoke curl upward through the moss-covered boughs, while flames consumed the underbrush and licked at the tree trunks.

  Data held Dolores Linton’s body against his shoulder. She was coughing and gagging, and she had about as much control over her bodily functions as a baby. But she was still alive, against considerable odds. Undoubtedly, a doctor in a fully equipped sickbay would be able to do much more for her, but Data had at least nursed her through the initial stages of her withdrawal from the parasite and its deadly euphoria.

  Without warning, she groaned, followed by rasping words. “Where am I? And why are you carrying me like a sack of potatoes?” He let her down gently into a seat on the Romulan shuttlecraft. “You are coherent.”

  “No, not really,” she murmured, wiping her mouth. “I feel like I ate a compost heap.”

  Data motioned to a few sprigs of moss he had saved in a sample bag. “You were covered by a moss creature. They are cryptogamic parasites, and they use a symbiotic fungus as well as telepathy to control the host organism—”

  “That’s enough,” grumbled Dolores, grabbing her stomach. “Are you saying ... I was a host organism? To a bunch of moss?”

  “I am afraid so,” said Data. “Humanoids are very susceptible to their powers. You do not recall falling prey to them?”

  She rubbed her head. “Oh, I remember walking in the woods ... it was getting dark, and I was trying to keep everyone together. The moss fell out of the trees. Was Geordi there?”

  “No, but perhaps a facsimile of him appeared to you.”

  “Is Geordi all right?” she asked with concern.

  “By now, he is aboard the Enterprise, along with Admiral Nechayev,” answered Data, checking his instrument panel. “That is odd—the forest on the surface of the planet is burning in several regions.”

  “Because of volcanoes?” Dolores asked, rubbing her neck. Her fingers gingerly touched the sucker and thorn scabs where the creature had attached itself.

  “No, these fires appear to be spontaneous, close to several shelters.” The android peered curiously at his readouts. “The pattern of the fires is odd, unless they were set deliberately.”

  “By these moss creatures you talk about?”

  “No, they have no reason to set the forest on fire, since it has been grown to their specifications. In fact, they have the most to lose, since they could not outrun a moderately moving blaze. I am most concerned about the flammable gases extant on the planet, such as methane, hydrogen, and methyl formate. Those swamps may be highly flammable. We should return to the surface.”

  Dolores sat up wearily. “Before I see other people ... is there anyplace on the vessel for a girl to freshen up?”

  Data pointed to the rear. “Yes, there is a fully equipped ’fresher, plus clothes are available from the replicator. This Romulan shuttlecraft, Raptor-class, is quite well appointed, and it is eleven percent faster than our fastest shuttlecraft.”

  “But we’re not going anywhere, are we?” asked Dolores, rising unsteadily to her feet.

  “No. My orders are to remain here and assist the survivors until I am relieved. Besides, it is uncertain that we could leave the planet’s atmosphere without being destroyed. This craft is not equipped with phase-shifting.”

  Dolores grimaced as she stretched her back. “Yeah, but the planet’s got hundreds of interphase generators lying around.”

  “That is true,” allowed Data with a cock of his head. He filed that observation away for later use. Dolores Linton was one of the most practical humans he had ever met.

  The geologist shuffled off, then she stopped and looked back at Data with a grateful smile. “Thanks for saving me. All those other people with me—”

  “I have only the resources you see here,” answered Data, motioning around the gaudy but cramped shuttlecraft. “We will have to hope the infected survivors will be able to live until help arrives. I believe the moss creatures will want them for their mobility ... if they hope to avoid the fires.”

  Dolores shivered and pulled her filthy, ripped jacket around her body as she stared at the mottled planet taking up most of the main viewport. In a quavering voice, she asked,
“What did we do to this place?”

  “It was not us,” answered Data. “It was a species who used our technology as they use everything else—without thought.”

  “Humans were once like that,” murmured Dolores.

  “Yes, I have often wondered what change occurred in your history to set you upon a different course,” said the android with honest curiosity.

  “We had to hit bottom—the last big war.” Touching the scars on her neck, Dolores shuffled to the aft compartment.

  “Our enemy has not hit bottom,” said Data to himself.

  Behaving like her personal valet, Commander Jagron carefully removed the heeled boots worn by his intelligence officer, Lieutenant Petroliv. Bending over like a toady, he massaged the statuesque Romulan’s feet, until she lifted a foot and kicked him onto his back. Jagron rose quickly, trying to maintain some of his dignity, but it was difficult when he was so hungry for his lover. It had been days since they had been able to escape to his quarters.

  “My Lady, I haven’t cleaned your uniform yet,” he said apologetically.

  Petroliv looked at him with pity and held out her arms. “You may remove it now.”

  With extreme care and tenderness, he lovingly undid every button on her intricate uniform, allowing himself to get close enough to smell her astringent odor. Petroliv kept herself very clean.

  She sighed with impatience as he took his time. “I need that sonic shower. I’ve had a difficult day.”

  “I know.” Jagron gave her a sympathetic bow. “Before we departed, did you check the bomb you planted on their bridge?”

  “Yes!” she snapped at him. “Unlike some on your staff, I follow through on my projects. The device is still responding to signal, and its miniature phase-shifting is working well.”

  “I worried that the android might detect it,” said the commander, “but he is gone now.” With trembling hands, he slid one of her sleeves down her bare arm and over her wrist, and he watched her fine black hairs rise to the cool air of his quarters.

  Jagron ran his hand over her arm, and she slapped it sharply. “Are you getting familiar with me, Servant?”

  “No, Mistress,” he responded, giving her a respectful bow. The commander was careful not to touch the back of his hand where it stung.

  “Just remember who runs this ship,” said Petroliv, eyeing him disdainfully.

  “I tremble at your command.” Jagron dropped to his knees and prostrated himself before the haughty woman, who towered over him, half undressed. “I accept your punishment. I am unworthy.”

  “I know,” she answered with a sneer. “Don’t worry, you will still become the youngest Senator in the Star Empire. Just make sure you obey me.”

  twelve

  Protus was an oblong asteroid that looked like a burnt potato that had started to sprout. Its appearance belied its enormous size—it was a planetoid with the lazy orbit of a comet. As the HoS drew closer, Leah Brahms could see that what looked like sprouts were in reality drill sites, huge light poles, communication arrays, solar collectors, and docking bays. The darkest spots were actually tunnels with monorails and conduits running into the depths of the gigantic asteroid. Dilithium freighters scooted back and forth in a monotonous pattern.

  “Things look normal here,” said Leah.

  Beside her, Maltz scowled. “Yes, they are groveling for money as usual. The mining companies are mercenaries, and so are the freelancers. They’ll sell to anyone with enough latinum. The Federation is supposed to be in charge here, but this colony predates the Federation—and the traders know how to get around their restrictions. On Hakon, we had traders who bought dilithium legally from Protus and sold it illegally to anyone. They would claim it was for domestic use, or for approved customers, but it was not.”

  “Why, Maltz, I’m shocked,” Leah said with a smile.

  “I wasn’t responsible,” the old Klingon protested. Then his shoulders slumped, and his leathery face took on a few more wrinkles. “But I turned my back on what was happening. I let the documents go through my office and took the fees. This is what I was reduced to—a money-grubbing civil servant.”

  “Have you ever been to Protus before?” asked Brahms.

  “No,” answered Maltz, “but I have heard they do not like people coming here unless they have business. We should have a reasonable story.” He grinned slyly. “Let us say we want to buy dilithium for the Cardassians, who are not approved but need it badly. With Hakon destroyed and our usual sources gone, we were forced to come here directly.”

  “Then why do we need to ask about Lomar?” Brahms queried.

  “We want to use Lomar as a secret dilithium refining station. We need a planet that’s out of the way but near here.” Maltz beamed with delight at his own cleverness. “I am almost as devious as a human.”

  “If you say so,” answered Leah. “Helm, contact their operations and request permission to dock.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A moment later, the young officer reported, “They wish to know our business.”

  Leah looked at Maltz and shrugged. “We’re dilithium buyers. We normally go to Hakon, but it doesn’t exist anymore.”

  The officer relayed the message, then listened intently to his earpiece. “We have been cleared to dock—bay seventeen.”

  The captain and her first officer watched with interest as their helmsman piloted the Klingon cruiser between two sparkling metal gantries that extended a kilometer from the dark asteroid. A sophisticated system of blinking lights guided them into a force-field bumper, and giant clamps emerged from the structure to secure the ship. A moment later, a giant tube snaked outward and connected to their main hatch.

  “You and I should go, Captain,” said Maltz, “plus some security.”

  “Is the security really necessary?” asked Brahms.

  “We are Klingons in Federation space,” Maltz reminded her. “Besides, I don’t trust these people.”

  Leah nodded. “Very well.”

  There were five of them waiting to disembark when the main hatch opened. Leah led the way into the giant tube, which functioned as a gangplank, and she saw a tow rope moving at a slow speed over her head. She grabbed the rope, as did the four Klingons, and they were soon moving weightlessly down the length of the tube.

  In due time, they reached the end of the gangplank, which opened onto a monorail car with artificial gravity. With relief, Leah took a seat in the sleek conveyance, as did her entourage. Soon they were hurtling along a dark tunnel into the bowels of the giant asteroid. Every so often, they caught a glimpse of mining operations.

  The Klingons looked a bit out of place riding in such luxury, but Leah enjoyed it. This was the first time since losing her husband and coworkers and fleeing from the Genesis Wave that she felt relaxed. It wasn’t peace exactly, but it was rest. Leah sat quietly, turning off her mind and letting the monorail do the work.

  With a shudder, the conveyance came to a stop, jarring her from a light sleep. The Klingons rose to their feet, looking anxious about being so deep inside this Federation rock, and Maltz motioned them to the door. “Look lively,” he growled. “Remember, we are Klingons. Honor with discipline.”

  They all nodded, except for Gradok, the hulking weapons master. He grinned. “Do they have ale here?”

  “I hope so,” said Maltz, “or we’re going to smash the place up.” His fellows grunted their approval at that sentiment.

  Leah shook her head, thinking that she couldn’t be in safer company, or more dangerous company. But they hadn’t come to Protus to have fun—they had come here to find out about Lomar. Anything else that happened was immaterial.

  She led the way off the monorail into a bustling underground city. The high ceilings gave her the impression that this was a hollowed-out mine converted to public use. Much to the delight of her entourage, there were bars, taverns, and restaurants everywhere, as well as storefront offices with signs proclaiming, PUREST DILITHIUM, BEST PRICES. And CURRENCY BROKER
—PRECIOUS METALS ACCEPTED. Plus the ubiquitous, MINERS WANTED. INQUIRE WITHIN.

  The low gravity inside the asteroid gave her step a definite bounce, but it also reminded Leah of her lab back on Seran-T-One. She tried to shake her melancholy, but it was difficult to see this happy, humming city when her own world had been reduced to a foul swamp. She tried to concentrate on their fact-gathering mission, but they weren’t exactly inconspicuous. Although there were representatives of numerous races among the inhabitants, there were no other Klingons. People glanced suspiciously at them and gave them a wide berth as they strode through the underground complex.

  “These people act like they’ve never seen a Klingon,” muttered Gradok, casting an appraising eye at a Bajoran female, who hurried away.

  “We’re a long way from Klingon space,” answered Leah.

  “How well I know that,” replied Maltz. “I’ve lived in this region for ten long years—never saw another Klingon myself.”

  Leah looked at him with newfound sympathy. “That must have been difficult.”

  He shook his head. “No. Being imprisoned on my own ship ninety years ago—that was difficult. Ever since then, being an outcast has been my life. It came easily.”

  “Can you ever redeem yourself?” asked Gradok.

  Maltz nodded forcefully. “I will redeem myself when I wash my hands in the blood of Carol Marcus.”

  “We have to find her first,” said Leah, trying to keep their minds on the task at hand. “What’s that?”

  She pointed into the distance, where a golden fountain was shooting a beautiful plume high into the air, almost to the roof of the great cavern. Leah altered course to head toward the fountain, and as they drew closer, she saw it wasn’t water but golden glitter shooting upward. Force fields or magnetic fields must have controlled the golden flow, because it rippled back into a pool of gold in a varying array of patterns. Leah felt like she had never seen anything more beautiful in her entire life, and she was drawn to the fountain as if to a magnet.

  “Isn’t it lovely?” Leah said breathily, staring at the massive piece of art.