STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book Two

by John Vornholt

  “If it were ale, that would be lovely,” Maltz said to the appreciative laughter of his fellows.

  “They’re flecks of gold-pressed latinum,” explained a voice behind her. “Ostentatious, but it shows how rich we are.”

  All five of them turned around to see a short, chubby human dressed in gaudy plaids that would do a Tellarite proud. He held his hand out to Leah and said, “Welcome to Protus. I’m the chief administrator, Colin Craycroft.”

  “Hello,” she answered, “I’m Captain Leah Brahms, of the HoS. We just got in—”

  He chuckled and held up his hand. “Oh, I know that. Word came down that a Klingon ship had docked, and I frankly couldn’t believe it. And now you tell me that you’re the captain?”

  “You have a problem with that?” grumbled Maltz, eyeing the smaller man ominously.

  “Oh, by no means, no,” Craycroft answered swiftly. “I take it ... you’re not part of the Klingon fleet?”

  “No, we’re independent traders,” answered Leah, feeling funny about lying. But they needed information, and if they could get more information by pretending to be dilithium traders, then so be it.

  “This is my first officer, Commander Maltz,” she said, giving her comrade a field promotion. She went on to introduce Gradok and the rest of them, priding herself on having finally learned all their names.

  “You’re a long way from home,” observed Craycroft.

  “We were on Hakon and barely escaped when it was destroyed,” Brahms answered, injecting a bit of truth into their story.

  The administrator shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Yes, terrible tragedy that. So many planets gone—I hear Earth is next.”

  “I think Earth still has a few days left,” answered Brahms, “although not many. Maybe someone can do something.”

  “We’re lucky it passed us by,” Craycroft said with a shiver. He glanced again at the quartet of strapping Klingons. “I don’t suppose any of you would like to work as miners for a few weeks? The pay is excellent.”

  “Work in a hole in the ground? That is not the life for a warrior.” Maltz rubbed his lips and looked around. “Do we have to stand out here and talk?”

  The little man smiled. “Of course, you must be thirsty and hungry after your narrow escape. Let me introduce you to my favorite place, the Pink Slipper.”

  Gradok grimaced. “I’m not sure I want to drink in a place called ‘The Pink Slipper.’ ”

  “They have fifty different types of ale,” answered Craycroft.

  “Why didn’t you say so!” exclaimed Maltz, wrapping his arm around the little man’s shoulders. “Where is it?”

  “Nearby.” The administrator led them around the fountain and across the plaza toward a large establishment that beckoned with the sounds of laughter and music. Catching sight of the tavern, Maltz said warily, “Maybe we should check it out, Captain?”

  “Go ahead,” she answered. The Klingons surged ahead, leaving Leah Brahms and Colin Craycroft to bring up the rear.

  The little man gazed at her. “You must be quite a remarkable woman to lead a band of Klingons.”

  “They’re a good crew,” she answered, “and people don’t usually try to cheat us.”

  He chuckled. “No, I wouldn’t think so. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of Klingons who were dilithium traders.”

  Leah said nothing in response to that, and they strolled into a large but dimly lit tavern with several gaming tables, dining tables, and an old-fashioned bar. But the main attraction seemed to be scantily clad men and women swinging on trapezes suspended from the high ceiling. Seeing the performers’ footwear, Leah knew where the Pink Slipper got its name. Although their acrobatics were quite tame, the novelty of having these artists flying overhead was apparently enough to fill the place.

  Maltz and the other three Klingons had already commandeered the bar, shoving the other customers aside. Leah began to wonder whether bringing all of them along had really been a good idea, but they were here now. The sooner they got out, she decided, the better.

  Bluntly she asked Craycroft, “Have you ever heard of a planet called Lomar?”

  He gazed at her thoughtfully. “I believe I’ve heard of it, but I can’t recall any details. Is it near here?”

  “Not too far, only a light-year away. I thought you might know something about it.”

  “There can’t be any mining there,” said the administrator, “or I’d know about it.”

  “Maybe some freelance miners know the place,” Leah said hopefully.

  Now Craycroft looked curious. “Why? Are there precious metals there? Fuel crystals?”

  Leah shook her head, thinking this was pointless. She meant to grill him about the place, not the other way around. With Craycroft in tow, she wandered toward her crew, who were laughing loudly and hoisting mugs. By the time she got to the bar, Maltz had already drained his first mug and was calling for a second.

  She rose on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “Go easy there—we’re here on business.”

  “I know. I’m just trying to fit in.” He pounded a beefy fist on the table. “You! Barkeep!”

  Gradok suddenly leaped high, swiping giant hands in the air, and Leah realized that he was trying to snag one of the trapeze artists as she flew past.

  “Gradok!” she snapped. “Honor with discipline.”

  The weapons master looked dumbly at her, then his craggy face broke into a smile. “Sorry, Captain. It’s been a long time since we were in port.”

  “I know, but we’ve got business.” Leah glared pointedly at him.

  “Right.” Loudly he bellowed, “Does anybody here know anything about Lomar?”

  Leah cringed, thinking there was a reason why Klingons didn’t make very good diplomats, or spies. The tavern suddenly grew quiet, and the only noise was the whooshing of the trapezes over their heads. After a few moments of this uncomfortable silence, the conversation and gaming began again.

  From the shadows crept a bent old man—a Tiburonian, judging from his giant, elephantine ears. He shuffled up to Gradok, barely coming up to the Klingon’s chin, although he must have been taller in his youth. “You want to know about Lomar?” he asked in a gravelly voice.

  Leah inserted herself into the conversation. “Yes, we do,” she answered. Unless someone demanded to know why they were curious about Lomar, she wasn’t going to use their cover story.

  The grizzled Tiburonian licked his thick lips. “I don’t suppose you could give an old miner a little drink.”

  “Gladly!” exclaimed Maltz, shoving a fresh mug into his hands. “Have you been there?”

  The old miner nodded. “Yeah. Only once.” He took a long chug of ale, as if the memory of Lomar made him thirsty ... and afraid.

  “What’s your name?” asked Leah, trying to cut the tension between them.

  “Krussel,” he answered hoarsely.

  “Why did you only go to Lomar once?”

  He stared at her with haunted black eyes. “Because that’s a bad place.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, most people who go there ... never come back.” Krussel took another long swig, and he set the mug on the bar with a trembling hand. “More, please.”

  “A man after my own heart!” Maltz bellowed, slapping the old miner on the back and nearly knocking him over. “Barkeep, two more here!”

  Leah rubbed her eyes, hoping they had enough latinum to pay for all of this. She also noticed that Mr. Craycroft had not gone away; instead he was lurking behind her, trying to be inconspicuous while he eavesdropped on the conversation.

  “What’s so dangerous on Lomar?” she asked.

  “Evil, ugly place. Nothing of worth there,” answered Krussel. He lowered his voice to add, “There are carniverous plants on Lomar.”

  Maltz laughed heartily. “A true warrior is not afraid of any plant.”

  “Then you’re a fool,” said the old miner.

  Before Leah could blink, Maltz
had grabbed the Tiburonian by the collar and lifted him off his feet. “Who are you calling a fool?”

  “Maltz!” barked Leah. “Put him down—he’s trying to help us. Besides, there are carniverous plants in the universe.”

  Delicately, Maltz set Krussel down and brushed off his clothing, but the old miner spent several seconds coughing. “I apologize,” said the Klingon. “I got carried away. Here, let me buy you another ale.”

  “No, no!” The miner tried to escape, but Gradok swiftly grabbed him and held him in place.

  “You do not refuse a Klingon when he wants to show you hospitality,” the weapons master said sternly.

  Sandwiched between Maltz and Gradok, the old Tiburonian had little choice but to nod helplessly. “Y-yes, another one, please.”

  The bartender, who had barely had a moment to deal with his other customers, quickly rustled up more mugs of foaming ale. Leah Brahms tried not to roll her eyes and look discouraged, but she felt as if they were getting nowhere ... but drunk.

  She felt a tug on her sleeve, and she turned to see the administrator, Colin Craycroft, who had been all but forgotten in the interrogation. The rotund little man smiled at her. “Why don’t you and I go to a private booth and discuss business?”

  Leah knew they were already discussing the business she had come here to discuss, but she couldn’t say that. Maybe it would be good to get away from her boisterous entourage. With a sigh, she answered, “All right.”

  She looked pointedly at Maltz. “I’ll be right back. Behave yourselves.”

  “Always,” he answered with a lopsided grin.

  Once again, Leah tried not to roll her eyes. She let Craycroft take her arm and lead her away from the laughter, music, and trapeze artists to the back of the tavern, where it was even darker. Giggles wafted from secluded compartments hidden by red curtains. Suddenly she wished she were back on the HoS, plowing blindly ahead. Perhaps this detour had not been such a good idea.

  Craycroft nodded to a tall Andorian waiter lurking in the shadows, and a silent communication passed between them. The waiter drew open the red curtain on one of the booths and motioned them inside, then he quickly hurried away.

  The booth was uncomfortably intimate, with luxurious lounge chairs and a small antigrav table, which floated in the air and could easily be pushed aside to make more lounging space. As she slid into the compartment, Leah was glad that she had four hulking Klingons outside, willing to protect her, although Colin Craycroft didn’t look particularly dangerous.

  He folded his hands and smiled pleasantly at her. “How many cubic meters do you want?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Dilithium. You did come here to buy dilithium, didn’t you?”

  Brahms had her lie carefully prepared, but it suddenly seemed pointless to lie when time was so precious. They were already on Protus and couldn’t be turned away, so this was no time to mince words. Still she surprised herself when she blurted out, “We don’t need any dilithium. I really came here to find out about Lomar.”

  “Why? The old miner said it had nothing of worth.”

  “That’s not our information,” Leah answered cryptically.

  Craycroft clapped his hands on his thighs. “Well then, why don’t we organize an expedition to find out what’s there?”

  “Um—” Leah tried to think of a good reason to head off this idea. Before she could reply, the curtain parted, and the Andorian waiter appeared with an open bottle of champagne and two fluted glasses.

  “This isn’t really necessary,” Leah said with embarrassment.

  “Why not?” asked Craycroft, grabbing the bottle and glasses and doing the pouring himself. With a wave, he dismissed the waiter. “This is champagne ... from Earth. You’d better enjoy it, because there may not be any more where this came from.”

  Leah couldn’t dispute that grim assessment, so she took the proffered glass and put it to her lips. The fizzy beverage tasted incredibly delicious—tart, fruity, and alive—and she felt herself relaxing as it coursed down her throat. Still there was a feeling of guilt, as they lounged in this opulence while millions died or were left homeless.

  “You were saying,” said Craycroft, “there is something of value on Lomar?”

  Brahms opened her mouth to deny it, but she suddenly felt light-headed and extremely tired. Her mind tried to form a quick lie, but her mouth betrayed her—speaking slowly and deliberately, she answered, “The Genesis Wave ... comes from Lomar.”

  Craycroft peered at her and snapped his fingers. “Rakber, get in here!”

  Through a blurred haze, she saw the Andorian waiter stick his head through the curtain. “Yes, boss?”

  “I want you to listen,” he said. “Her speech is getting slurred, and I don’t want to miss anything.”

  The Andorian slid into the seat beside her and gently took her hand. “Just relax,” he said in a deep, soothing voice.

  Oh, I’m relaxed, she wanted to say. I’m about to pass out. She could see and hear them, but she felt like she wasn’t really there—as if her body were floating above them, looking down. She understood everything they said when they spoke directly to her, but their conversation with each other came in fuzzy pieces.

  “I ... gotta ... go ...” Leah tried to rise to her feet, but the muscles in her legs refused to work. She tried to shout, but her voice came out a hoarse whisper. “Maltz—”

  “Your friends are doing fine,” Craycroft assured her. “They’re very happy, and they want you to tell me everything you know about the planet named Lomar.”

  “Lomar ... source of Genesis Wave ... maybe.” They waited for her to say more, but she didn’t seem to know anything more. Leah felt like a video lens—able to see and hear ... but unable to react or participate. She had to concentrate to understand what they were saying, and she still got only the gist of it.

  “That’s all she knows?” Rakber asked in amazement.

  “Well, it’s something,” said Craycroft thoughtfully, “although what it is, I’m not sure. What are the Klingons doing?”

  “Drinking,” answered the Andorian. “So far, the drug hasn’t had any effect on them. Or very little effect.”

  “See if you can pick a fight with them,” said Craycroft. “We need to have them arrested.”

  The Andorian gave him a sidelong glance. “You don’t pay me enough to pick fights with Klingons.”

  “Go tell them that you saw the two of us leave through the back door,” the little man said with a smile. “That should keep them drinking for a while. I’ll take her downstairs.”

  Rakber shook his head doubtfully. “Remind me to ask you for a raise.” The dour Andorian slipped out of the booth and through the red curtain.

  Craycroft gripped Leah tightly around the shoulders. Although she wanted to scream and slap him, she was unable to do either one. “I’m not really the chief administrator,” he said apologetically. “But I’ll take you to him, if you cooperate.”

  He reached behind the couch and pressed a panel. At once, the wall behind her slid open, and the booth began to rotate. The soft cushions dropped away beneath her, and Leah felt herself falling into darkness. This time she screamed involuntarily.

  thirteen

  Through a hazy fog and blaring music, Maltz thought he heard something troubling—a scream. He looked around the Pink Slipper, but he wasn’t able to focus on anything in the dimly lit tavern—not the laughing patrons or the grinning trapeze artists floating overhead. It was all a fuzzy blur.

  The old Klingon had been drunk many times in his life, especially the last few years on Hakon, so he knew the feeling well. This wasn’t it. With a lunge, he slapped the mug out of Gradok’s hand, and it went banging across the bar into a row of bottles, resulting in a loud crash.

  “Watch it!” the weapons master bellowed, his words slurred. “Why did you do that?”

  “There’s something wrong,” muttered Maltz. He looked around, blinking to clear his eyes. “Where’s the capta
in?”

  Gradok snorted. “Oh, she went off with that popinjay. When it comes to mating, she must prefer smooth-heads, jIyaj.”

  Maltz looked around more thoroughly, and he spotted the Tiburonian, Krussel, lying at his feet, blissfully passed out. Their two younger comrades, Kurton and Burka, were leaning over the bar, semiconscious.

  Angrily, Maltz grabbed Gradok and whirled him around to face his fallen comrades. “Have you ever seen two Klingons get drunk so quickly? Have you ever gotten drunk so quickly?”

  Gradok gave him a smile that was missing several teeth. “Good ale!”

  “No, bad ale! Drugged ale.” Now he looked around for the bartender, who had suddenly disappeared.

  At that moment, a gangly Andorian approached them, an insincere smile plastered to his narrow face. “I bring word about your captain. She has gone off with Mr. Craycroft to see the—”

  In a flash, Maltz whipped out his knife and shoved the point under the Andorian’s chin, while gripping his antennae with his other hand. “I’ve never gutted an Andorian before,” whispered Maltz. “Are your intestines as blue as your skin?”

  “I ... aghh ... I can’t talk this way,” complained the waiter, trembling.

  “I bet you can, and speak the truth,” hissed Maltz. “What is in these drinks?”

  “Regulan ale.”

  Maltz pressed the knife point home, drawing a drop of blue blood from the Andorian’s quivering chin. “I’ll tear off your antennae with my bare hands, so help me Kahless. Where is our captain?”

  With a trembling finger, the Andorian pointed to the back of the tavern. Matlz removed the knife from his chin and prodded the Andorian’s back. “Lead the way. One false move, and it’s the last move you’ll ever make. Gradok, wake up those two children. Bring the Tiburonian, too.”

  The big Klingon picked up the remaining mugs of ale and dumped them over the heads of Kurton and Burka, who jumped up sputtering and swinging their fists. “Qeh!” he barked, then he grabbed the old Tiburonian and tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of targ food.

  With the terrified Andorian in the lead, the wary party of Klingons stalked to the back of the tavern. By now, it was very quiet inside the Pink Slipper; the blaring music and gambling tables were stilled, and customers scurried out of their way.