STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book Two

by John Vornholt

  Throwing off the covers, Leah rolled out of bed, her head still groggy. She would have to come to her senses on the run, she decided, so she staggered toward the door where her young crewmen had died. After all Leah had witnessed, she ought to be immune to the effects of death, which had chased her over half the quadrant; but she was terribly saddened by the loss of these two. They had been young, eager to follow orders, and dependent upon superiors to use them wisely. It was her idea to come here, and they had probably been trying to rescue her when they died. Leah had forgotten that humans were often the worst predators.

  Then again, Burka and Kurton had gone down fighting—their fellows would say they had achieved honorable deaths. Leah wasn’t ready for that yet, because she wasn’t done fighting.

  Taking a deep breath and getting her wobbly feet under her, she plodded out the door into a narrow tunnel carved from black stone. Dim lights flickered along the length of the winding tunnel, and Leah tried to combat a pounding headache as she walked. Finally she picked up her pace, noting the pits in the wall and the scattered pebbles where the recent phaser battle had left its mark.

  She wracked her brain. What do I remember? What do I know?

  Nothing about this place or how I got here, came the answer. No matter how hard I try to forget, I remember too much about Seran, Hakon, Myrmidon, and the other planets that have already died. Leah plunged onward into the gloomy passageway, certain only that she needed to survive and keep moving, just like before.

  fourteen

  Maltz, Gradok, and the feeble Tiburonian, Krussel, inched toward a huge underground chamber that was outfitted with at least fifty beds, a hundred blinking displays, and two dozen medical workers. Still disguised in green mining suits with hoods, they had been shepherded into this line the instant they stepped off the transporter platform. There was no apparent way to escape from the underground chamber. The corridor went straight from the transporter tube to the trauma center, and it was awash in a sea of blithering humans and their allies, all convinced that they needed medical attention.

  There had to be a lot of mining accidents on Protus, thought Maltz, because they were prepared for a large influx of patients. He fought the temptation to fight or run from the close-pressed horde, because the Klingons were outnumbered and stuck inside this subterranean labyrinth. They would have to wait for an opportunity, but they couldn’t wait long. Despite hanging back as much as possible, the threesome were being pushed toward the medical workers. Soon they would have to take off their hoods to be examined, revealing their identities.

  Think! he ordered himself. What would a devious human do?

  When he couldn’t come up with an idea, he merely looked around. The workers in the center were extremely calm as they dealt with the influx of patients. Did they even know or care what kind of emergency it was? Escape would be much easier, he decided, if the people on this level were in a cowardly panic like the miners below.

  With a smile under his disguise, the cagey Klingon bent down to the old Tiburonian. “Krussel, take off your hood and shout as loud as you can that the Genesis Wave is going to hit Protus.”

  Krussel threw his head back and gasped. “Is that true?”

  “Yes,” he lied, thinking the old miner was either addle-brained or still drugged. “The collapse in the tunnel was just the beginning.”

  “Oh, my! I’ll tell them.” With difficulty, the Tiburonian pulled the hood over his big head and floppy ears. Then he shrieked at the top of his lungs, “Doom! Doom is here! The Genesis Wave is headed toward Protus!”

  “What? Where! Says who!” bellowed the workers, most of whom were already frightened by the explosion, smoke, and dust below in the mine. Maltz grabbed his confederate, Gradok, and pulled him away from the mob that was starting to collect around the ranting coot.

  “The Genesis Wave is going to hit Protus!” the Tiburonian shouted, believing it more thoroughly each time he said it. “That’s what’s causing the tunnels to collapse!”

  Worried cries erupted in the medical center, and Maltz decided that panic was a very good weapon indeed. The combination of the Genesis Wave and collapsing tunnels was an effective rumor on Protus, judging by the reaction. He was sorry that they had to desert the old miner, but escape was crucial.

  While most of the people in the corridor surrounded the Tiburonian and bombarded him with questions, the two Klingons plowed against the current of bodies. Maltz was bound for the only visible exit, the transporter tube on which they had arrived. Keeping their hooded heads low, they approached the transporter as two injured miners limped off.

  “What’s going on down there?” asked the transporter operator, craning his neck to see over the surging mob.

  “Word just came down that the Genesis Wave is going to hit us!” answered Maltz, trying to sound like a worried human. He nodded to Gradok, who stepped behind the operator.

  “What? Are you kidding me?” the worker exclaimed. “Says who?”

  “Look! You can see for yourself.” Maltz pointed into the chaos at the door of the medical center. While the human was distracted, Gradok brought a heavy fist crushing down on the back of his head, and Maltz caught the man as he fell.

  “Taken ill,” said Maltz in case anyone was watching. But no one was. He dragged the human behind the transporter console and propped him up as best he could, while Gradok bent over the controls. The human must be nicely thick-headed, thought the Klingon, because he was still breathing.

  “There are many preset destinations,” Gradok said with confusion as he studied the complex board. “No time to look up coordinates.”

  “What destinations are there?” the elder Klingon asked, rising wearily to his feet.

  “There they are!” cried an agitated voice. Maltz whirled around to see that the Tiburonian had spotted them and was pointing in their direction. “They can verify it! They’re the ones who told me about the wave coming!”

  “Pick a place!” Maltz shouted, leaping into the transporter tube.

  Gradok punched the board a couple of times, then he jumped into the transporter just as their molecules were collected in a spinning flurry of light.

  Once the tingling of the transporter beam had stopped, Maltz warily opened his eyes; he found himself in a sumptuous booth that was decorated with lacy curtains and golden tassels. Gradok peered curiously at him, but neither one of the Klingons could offer a guess as to where they were.

  With dread, Maltz pushed open the curtain, and he and Gradok stumbled out of the booth into the middle of a lady’s lingerie shop. A fashion show was in progress, and both the models and the customers gasped at the sight of two hooded miners in their midst.

  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded an indignant matron, as the models bounced off the stage and rushed for cover. “You’re not supposed to be on this level!”

  Wide-eyed, Maltz stared at the women. “Everybody, run for your lives! The tunnels are collapsing! The Genesis Wave is headed toward Protus.”

  That brought even more abrupt gasps from the audience. Maltz considered pulling out his disruptor and trying to destroy the transporter booth, so no one could immediately follow them; but he had created enough havoc already. They had to slip away unnoticed, not draw any more attention.

  Gradok was craning his neck, trying to locate the scantily clad females, and Maltz grabbed his collar and barked, “We have to keep moving!”

  “Why?” muttered the weapons master with disappointment.

  People in the crowd peppered them with questions and demands, but Maltz just shoved his way through them, while keeping a close eye on Gradok. Running, the Klingons quickly outdistanced their pursuers and exited the clothing shop into the busy subterranean mall. Maltz whirled around as they walked, searching for the Pink Slipper, but he didn’t recognize any landmarks. Even the golden fountain wasn’t in sight—there was no telling where they were in this maze of an underground city.

  The old Klingon looked around for signs, easily rea
ding the Federation tongues he had learned during his diplomatic career. Finally his eyes lit up behind his clear faceplate. “Look! There’s a sign for the space docks.”

  “You want to return to the ship without our captain? Our men?” Gradok gaped at him.

  The old Klingon glared at his comrade. “Remember this well, the Blood Oath is more important than any one of us. If the others are worthy, they will find their way back to the ship.”

  Maltz slapped his comrade on the back of his tight-fitting suit. “But we will do what we can to help them. Perhaps we should continue to spread panic.”

  The climb was slow and laborious, because Leah Brahms had to stop every meter or so to burn more handholds and footholds with her phaser. Then she wrapped rags around her hands in order to endure the heat of the handholds. In this tedious fashion, she continued to scale the metal slide she had found in the pillow room. She could vaguely remember plunging down this slide to reach the plush chamber below.

  It helped that the gravity was light inside the asteroid, so she could make good progress up the metal incline once she got started. Still it was slow having to carve footholds as she went, but it had to be done. If she ever lost her hold on the slippery slope, she’d slide all the way down to the bottom and would have to start again.

  Only a hint of light trickled down from above, but it seemed to be getting brighter the higher she climbed. Leah was also relieved that her memory was coming back to her—now she recalled entering that secluded booth in the Pink Slipper. That was really the last thing she remembered clearly, other than drinking champagne, making mindless conversation, and riding down the slide.

  With determination and patience, the engineer climbed to the top of the metal incline, where she found a shattered wall with a hole big enough to climb through. She emerged into the same private booth she had visited before, only now it was torn apart. With the pillows and curtains ripped to shreds, she could easily inspect the mechanism of the tilting booth and its attached chute. The gears and springs looked ancient and grimy, and she wondered if the slide was really an old piece of mining equipment, discarded then put to a use for which it was not originally intended.

  As she caught her breath, Leah noticed something even more unusual—silence. Earlier, the Pink Slipper had been full of raucous noise and behavior, but now the tavern was eerily quiet. Bright lights illuminated every square centimeter of the place, which gave the garish decor a sickly pallor. She stepped out of the booth and looked around, verifying that the huge chamber was deserted. Several of the gaming and dining tables were overturned, and empty trapezes hung like dead vines from the cathedral ceiling.

  Leah strolled through the abandoned playground, which looked phony and tawdry in the glaring light, and she wondered what could have cleared it out so totally. Then she remembered that she had left four Klingons behind, and two of them were dead. Maybe all four of them were dead, she thought with a pang of remorse. They had probably caused a commotion while looking for her.

  It’s all my fault, she decided gloomily. I brought them here. All this time, I was worried about their conduct, when my conduct was what endangered the crew and the mission.

  Still distracted, Brahms reached the front door of the Pink Slipper and nearly crashed into it when it didn’t open automatically. She pushed on the door, but it refused to budge. Peering out the smoky-glass windows of the tavern, Leah discovered that the door was locked from the outside with a blinking contraption. She was locked in!

  When she saw three people run past the tavern in a panic, Leah wondered what was going on. The mall itself seemed to be deserted, or at least in the process of getting cleared out. Gone were all the amiable shoppers and merrymakers, and most of the businesses appeared to have closed their doors.

  It was tempting to stay in the relative safety of the empty tavern, but she had to return to her ship ... and hope she still had a crew. Leah stepped back and aimed her phaser at the window. The beam was already set to melt solids, and she had no problem carving a hole in the window big enough to crawl through. An alarm went off, but it only added to the surreal atmosphere in this part of the subterranean city.

  A moment later, Leah was loping through the mall alongside members of the populace. She singled out a woman, who appeared to be a Coridan by her distinctive hairstyle. “Where is everyone going?” asked Leah.

  “You haven’t heard?” asked the Coridan in amazement. “We’re all getting out of here. The tunnels are collapsing, and the Genesis Wave is supposed to hit us any minute!”

  “We’re not in the path of the Genesis Wave,” declared Brahms. Even though she knew that to be true, just the idea panicked her. “Lots of planets are in danger, but not Protus.”

  “What makes you such an expert?” The woman picked up speed, pointedly running away from Leah.

  The engineer stopped jogging and stepped into a recessed alcove, so as not to be run over by the stampede. She pulled out her communicator badge and barked, “Brahms to the bridge of the HoS. Come in! Kurok, are you there?”

  When there was no response, she scowled and put the device away. It wasn’t going to be that easy to get out of here, but she had to keep trying. Studying the signs overhead, Leah saw that most of the riot was headed the same way she was—to the space docks.

  As she walked, the underground city looked oddly familiar—like a hundred space stations—yet it was alien and unfamiliar, too. Leah had no idea where she was, so she just had to follow the trickle of frightened citizens.

  That trickle became a sluggish throng as they neared the monorail station. She was soon bogged down in the crowd and could do no more than move with the flow, trying to listen and stand on her tiptoes to see. Through the bobbing heads, she got a glimpse of security officers surrounding the monorail track, where a train waited. They were wearing riot gear and gas masks. Not a good sign.

  Angry shouts rose over the anxious murmur of the crowd, and she could make out a few phrases: “The monorails are overloaded! Go back. There is no emergency!”

  Just as loudly came the responses: “Then why can’t we get on board? I’ve got to get back to my ship! Let us go!”

  Like a wave sloshing toward the shore, the crowd pressed forward, and Leah found herself carried along. With a feeling of dread, she turned and tried to fight her way against the tide, but it was futile. Once again, she was sucked into the frenzy. Although this had to be a fake alarm, the panic was just as real as it had been on Hakon. Besides, thought Leah, for all she knew, the tunnels really were collapsing—this much chaos didn’t happen in a vacuum.

  The verbal exchange between the guards and the mob became heated, when suddenly a projectile came lofting over their heads. It landed amid the crowd, and a big plume of red smoke went up, followed by cries of alarm. But the people nearest the red smoke sat calmly on the floor looking blissful. Despite the innocuous effect, the shouts turned to shrieks, and everyone in the crowd tried to run in a different direction. Leah held her breath and kept low, managing to avoid the fumes; still her eyes watered. Dazzle gas! She had heard of it, but she never thought she’d ever see any.

  Brahms fought the temptation to drop to the floor and curl into a ball. Instead she jumped upon some poor soul’s back and tried to peer over the choppy sea of heads. Now the security guards were arguing with each other as well as the rabid crowd, and pushing and shoving broke out. Another gas canister lofted over the crowd, exploding in a burst of colorful smoke, and the screams reached a higher pitch.

  It was like the guards were inciting the riot, thought Leah. What idiots! Without warning, she was dumped off the broad back she had been climbing, and she barely landed on her feet. Finally the crowd had figured out that they could only escape from the dazzle gas by going in the opposite direction, away from the monorail station. Exhausted and bruised, Leah joined the sluggish flight.

  Using her elbows and shoulders, she worked her way over to the wall, looking for an access panel, a ladder, anyplace where she could gai
n a handhold and pause in this mad flight. She heard a burst of screams as another canister was lobbed into the crowd, raising the panic level. Leah pushed toward her objective; her step quickened when she saw the familiar black and yellow colors of a fire hose box.

  Fighting against the press of the mob, she lunged for the handle of the box and gripped it as she flew past. With a click, the door opened, and she swung back on the hinges into the wall.

  Leah didn’t quite get the breath knocked out of her, but it took all her effort to hold on and keep from blacking out.

  Finally she was able to squeeze against the wall and use the open door as a shield. It was a good thing she was small. Some of the overzealous guards in their gas masks were fighting their way through the crowd. For what purpose? she wondered. Everything they did just made things worse.

  Leah glanced inside the box on the wall and saw a lever beside the coiled fire hose. She had an irrational urge to fight back against the heavy-handed security officers and their dazzle gas. Besides, if she got arrested, maybe she could tell her story to someone in charge. So she grabbed the nozzle of the hose. Her actions did not go unnoticed, and two of the masked security guards veered off from the others and headed in her direction.

  Angry over the way she’d been treated—and the way all these people were being treated—Brahms reached inside the box, grabbed the lever, and pulled it down. At once, the recoil from the fire hose slammed her against the wall, but she gripped the nozzle and managed to maintain control of a powerful jet of fire-fighting chemicals. The stream blasted the advancing guards, who slipped to the ground. It also knocked down a few frightened citizens, but they were no worse off than when they were fleeing from the tear gas.

  While Leah was watching, she lost track of the guards. One of them jumped to his feet right in front of her and tried to grab the hose from her hands. She fought with all her might to hold on, but he was strong, almost berserk, in his determination. When his partner gripped her wrist, she was helpless to stop them from wrenching the hose from her hands.