“What is going on here, Picard?” asked Tomalak. “Can’t you people be trusted with your own toys?”
The captain scowled and lowered his voice. “Believe me, I never believed in Project Genesis until now. Our intentions were good, but we failed to foresee the consequences.”
The old Romulan nodded sagely. “Now that sounds like the Federation we know and love. Captain Picard, this is a rising star in our fleet, Commander Jagron of the D’Arvuk.”
Picard shook the hand of the hawk-faced Romulan. “It’s a pleasure.”
“The honor is all mine,” said the young commander with a polite nod, his alert eyes never leaving Picard’s face. “Your career is the stuff of legends.”
“That’s because the Federation writes most of the legends,” said Tomalak with a sneer. “Although in this case, the legend is more notorious than proud. I don’t think our alliance is going to last very long if this disaster destroys several of our worlds.”
“It’s not going to get that far,” vowed Picard, although he didn’t know how they were going to stop it before then. “When do you turn over your interphase generators to us?”
“Your efficient Admiral Nechayev has us dismantling them right now,” answered Commander Jagron. “How can you possibly replicate enough?”
“Apparently, there are a lot of facilities on the planet,” answered Picard, hoping that was true.
The noise level of the conversation trailed off, and Picard saw several Starfleet officers hurry toward the door. He turned to see Admiral Nechayev stride into the sumptuous lounge, accompanied by her padd-carrying staff. She looked charged with energy, which was a welcome change from the last time he had seen her, and he wondered if she had gotten good news from the task force.
The small woman stopped in the center of the lounge and said loudly, “Honored guests, generals, captains, commanders, thank you for attending this gathering. In the days to come, there won’t be much time to get to know each other or share a convivial drink, so make the most of it. In twenty-four hours, the beautiful planet floating beneath us will be transformed forever. But it will still be here, and so will we. This time, we will not retreat!”
This sentiment met with shouts of approval, especially from the Klingon contingent. Picard glanced at Leah Brahms, who shook her head and looked very troubled. She said something to La Forge, and the two of them moved away from the crowd to continue their conversation in whispers.
Nechayev continued, “Our Romulan allies are contributing the most important part of our new defense, and we can’t even begin to express our gratitude to them. Our Klingon allies have proven themselves to be the champions of the rapid evacuation. They have already saved three times as many lives as Starfleet itself has been able to save. In this operation, they will provide logistical support. We also have representatives from Myrmidon herself, and we welcome the chance to hear their concerns.”
The admiral motioned to the Romulans. “Some of you are still reading data sheets about the Genesis Wave. If any of you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask myself, my staff, or our experts: Dr. Leah Brahms and Commander Geordi La Forge.”
That rudely interrupted the private conversation of La Forge and Brahms, and they nodded hesitantly at the crowd of hard-bitten Klingons and Romulans.
“I have a question!” growled a stocky Klingon, striding forward. “Why do you not eliminate the beasts who are doing this to you?”
“We’re trying,” answered Admiral Nechayev. “We’ve dispatched a task force of five Defiant-class starships to locate the source, but so far they’ve been unsuccessful. I assure you, General Gra’Kor, we have talked about opening another front against our unknown enemy. If we continue to be unsuccessful, I will be happy to give you that assignment.”
The Klingon grunted with satisfaction and looked at his aides, who also seemed satisfied with this response.
Captain Picard felt a light tug on his sleeve. He turned to see Counselor Troi, who leaned close to whisper, “I don’t believe she’s being entirely honest.”
“Really?” whispered Picard. He listened more closely to what the admiral had to say, but she went on to simply recap much of what he already knew.
Finally Nechayev grabbed a filled glass from an aide, held it aloft, and concluded. “Although the impact of the Genesis Wave has been tragic, it has brought the great powers of the Alpha Quadrant together in acts of bravery and altruism. We will never forget your courage under these trying circumstances. We salute you, our allies.”
“Hear! Hear! Bravo!” and similar calls echoed throughout the lounge. No one was more appreciative than the Bolians in attendance.
While conversational groups formed all over the room, Nechayev turned to address her aides. Her instructions sent most of them scurrying off, then she motioned to Picard. “Captain, could I see you for a moment?”
“Certainly,” he said, taking his leave from Commanders Tomalak and Jagron. Deanna Troi stepped in to keep the Romulans occupied.
Admiral Nechayev led him along the observation window until they were far away from anyone else’s hearing. Picard realized he was about to be told a confidence, and he could guess what it was.
“Something wrong with the task force?” he asked softly.
“How did you know that?” Nechayev stopped to stare at him with frank amazement.
“I have a Betazoid on staff. What happened to them? “
“We’ve lost contact,” said the admiral glumly. “They stopped checking in about eight hours ago, and they haven’t answered our hails either.”
“Where were they? Is there any sign of them on sensors?”
She kept her voice low. “Not now. They were investigating a large asteroid field called the Boneyard, where we think the wave might originate. We haven’t seen any sign of them since, but with all the space traffic . . . our tracking systems are overloaded. Everybody with a spacecraft is flying it, making an escape or picking up passengers.”
The diminutive admiral sighed. “I suppose it’s good that the private sector is starting to kick in. I hear Earth is beseiged with Ferengi vessels, offering expensive passage out. Of course, the Ferengi would pick the richest, most populace planet, and give themselves plenty of time.”
The captain nodded gravely, still troubled by the news that the task force not had only failed, they had disappeared. “What are we going to do about the missing ships?”
“All of our forces are committed here,” said Nechayev, motioning toward the yellow-green planet shimmering below them. “Or they’re involved in other evacuations. We’re facing a ruthless enemy, and they’re not going to make it easy for us. If we don’t hear soon, I’m going to give the Klingons this information. Maybe they can spare a ship or two. There’s really no time for us to question our strategy now—we’ll have to leave that to the survivors.”
Her stern expression softened into thoughtfulness as she gazed out the window at the endangered planet. In a confidential tone, she added, “I have something else to tell you.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“I’m going to stay on Myrmidon with the populace during the . . . transformation. A show of confidence.”
“Sir?” said Picard, trying not to sound alarmed. “Is that really necessary?”
“I think it is,” answered Nechayev. “We have to be able to show our confidence in order to win their confidence. We have plenty of technicians who must stay behind, too, and I want to show camaraderie with them. Besides . . . I have to do it for myself. If I can live through this, I’ll be able to convince others that they can live through it. That there’s hope.”
“How will you get off the planet . . . afterwards?” asked the captain.
“Our scientists think the Romulans can cut through the wave in a cloaked ship and beam us off Myrmidon. If they can’t or won’t, I’ll have to wait several days until the effect diminishes. It’s not a perfect plan.”
“But it is a noble gesture. Perhaps I should . . .�
� he began.
“Don’t even think about it, Picard,” she answered curtly. “Although I’m going to make a call for Starfleet volunteers to stand with me, I really don’t want a horde of people. Besides, you have to make sure the Enterprise survives. If I don’t get out, my aides will put through a field promotion for you—to admiral—so that you can take over this operation. That won’t be doing you much of a favor, of course. For that, I’m sorry. But you’re here, you’re able, and you know as much about it as anybody.”
“Admiral, eh?” said the captain distastefully. “I can assure you, we will do everything in our power to make sure you survive and get back to your desk as soon as possible.”
“I’m certain,” said the admiral with a fleeting smile. “Just don’t volunteer when I make my call. That’s all, Captain.”
“Thank you, Admiral.” The captain stepped away from the observation lounge window to allow others access to Admiral Nechayev. Despite the massing of ships and the arrival of allies, he was worried. The disappearance of the task force showed that their mysterious enemy was more formidable than they imagined.
Admiral Nechayev appeared energized by her plan to risk her life in solidarity with the people, and she was sure of her reasons. But Picard could see the disaster in the making. If admirals and dignitaries died horrible deaths—not to mention fifty million Bolians—then confidence in Starfleet would disappear. The rest of the evacuations would be more insane than they were now. Picard would be left to oversee a chaotic stampede stretching halfway across the quadrant, plus the destruction of more planets and billions of people, including Earth. And the ultimate enemy would remain anonymous and untouched.
We have to succeed on Myrmidon, he told himself in no uncertain terms.
Will Riker did indeed know one of the Klingons at the reception, from having served with him aboard the Pagh. Dermok was now first officer on the Jaj, and the two of them relived old times. The other Klingons bombarded Maltz with questions, but the old warrior held his own, sounding alert and arrogant. When Maltz began to sweep his hands through the air and gruffly relate his tale, Riker and his friend had to stop to listen. No one could ignore a Klingon in full storytelling mode.
First came his heroic escape from Hakon, complete with jailbreak, Romulan spy, and the Genesis Wave bearing down on them. In a hoarse whisper, Maltz told about their final contact with the Pelleans—a mighty, spacefaring race who were now gone forever. He praised the young human who had saved him to spread the alarm, Dr. Leah Brahms.
“Saved by a human!” said General Gra’Kor with a sneer. “You still have much to answer for, Maltz.”
Steel and a hint of madness glinted in the old Klingon’s eyes. “What do you mean by that?”
The stocky general growled. “I mean, you and that idiot, Kruge, let the Genesis Device escape our grasp when you had the chance to seize it! And protect it. You let a bird-of-prey be captured and piloted by a ragtag band of humans. You haven’t tried hard enough to get to Sto-Vo-Kor.”
There were audible gasps, and the other Klingons moved away from Gra’Kor and Maltz, who proceeded to size each other up. For the first time, Riker realized that it was no accident that Maltz had been living on Hakon—he was an outcast.
The old Klingon finally laughed—a howling, roaring shriek that sliced through the genteel conversation and brought every eye to him. He finally sneered in the general’s face and said, “Is that the best you can do? That insult is ninety years old, and I hear it every day of my life.”
Maltz pounded his chest. “I know I am going to Sto-Vo-Kor, because I have sworn a blood oath against this cowardly weapon and the demons who unleashed it.”
“Qapla’! yIntagh!” cheered the younger Klingons, catching Maltz’s infectious spirit.
Maltz drew his d’k tahg and pointed it menacingly at the general’s ample stomach. “So if you stand in my way, you will either get killed, or you will usher me to Sto-Vo-Kor. I do not care. I have been alive long enough. This beast has come after me twice—wrecking my career each time—and this time I intend to finish it!”
Now every one of the Klingons was cheering Maltz and slapping him on the back. General Gra’Kor grinned and pounded the old warrior’s shoulders with his beefy fists. “I misjudged you, Maltz. I will sing your praises at the High Council! Nothing will stand in the way of your blood oath. What will you require?”
“A ship,” said Maltz boldly.
Gra’Kor nodded. “Will you be captain?”
“No, I have a captain—a partner to my blood oath. I am content to be first mate.”
“Getting a ship may take some doing,” said the stocky Klingon, tugging on his beard. “Ships are scarce at the moment. But I will do what I can. In the meantime—”
“I would like to stay on the Enterprise.” Stealing a glance at Riker, the old Klingon leaned forward and said, “They need a Klingon to keep reminding them of what is important. They think it is saving lives, and I know it is taking lives.”
“Well said!” barked Gra’Kor, lifting a mug of ale. “We drink to your success! Qapla’!”
Maltz nodded and sheathed his knife, tears filling his rheumy eyes. Riker had the feeling it had been a long time since a gathering of his fellows had praised the old Klingon.
“Leah, please!” insisted Geordi in a tight whisper. “You can’t leave now.” He pulled her away from the dignitaries in the Saucer Lounge and hustled her along the starboard window, hardly noticing the beautiful starscape.
“I’m going to leave as soon as this operation is over,” she said fiercely. “That’s only twenty-four hours from now.”
“But why?” asked La Forge, certain he was sounding shrill and possessive. But he couldn’t let her walk out of his life without a fight, even if he couldn’t tell her why.
Leah sighed with exasperation. “Because my life’s been destroyed, because I don’t know what I’m doing, because I’m not a member of your crew. All those things, Geordi. I know you’re being sweet—wanting to give me a new place to call home—but I’m not ready for that. I just need to wander for a while. I think I should tell the captain.”
“But we need you,” insisted Geordi, hiding much more than those four words conveyed.
“Why?” Brahms shook her head and gazed wearily at him. “If this idea works, anyone can set it up. If it doesn’t work . . . Well, I’m not sure I can save the Federation single-handedly. I don’t want that responsibility.” She started walking off.
“But if there’s a new idea . . . one that works better?” begged Geordi, grasping for words that would keep her beside him.
“I’ll see you in an hour on the surface,” said Leah Brahms. She turned and strode quickly from the Saucer Lounge. Several pairs of eyes watched her go, including Captain Picard, who pointed to her and said something to his Romulan companions.
La Forge turned back to the observation window, gazing at the endless vista of space. To his bionic vision, darkness was mostly coolness, and this space looked as chill as the emptiness in his heart.
twenty-three
For an hour, Deanna Troi wandered the streets of Neprin, the most populous city on Myrmidon. It was a glorious city—with towering triangular and conical shaped buildings, many of them constructed with the widest part of the triangle at the top. The smaller buildings were almost all domes, either geodesic or smooth, with breathtaking inlaid mosaic that sparkled in the sun. There was not a single conventional box-shaped building in sight. Not surprisingly, blue was a favorite color, and the Bolians seemed to have discovered more shades of blue than anyone else in the galaxy. The architecture reminded her of the stylishness that the Bolians exhibited in everything they did.
Interspersed tastefully among the buildings were small, parklike areas. At first, Deanna thought these parks were decorated with strange, bulbous statues. But upon closer inspection she realized the “statues” were in reality gigantic vegetables up to four meters tall and shaped like artichokes. Citizens often stopped durin
g their travels to cut off a bit of the giant plant to eat as they walked, although Deanna did not partake.
She was supposed to be interviewing the residents, gauging how much work Starfleet would have to do to convince them to stroll into a building or an empty field and calmly watch the Genesis Wave roll over them. But she couldn’t bring herself to talk to the Bolians, who gazed upon her Starfleet uniform as they might gaze upon a figure in a dark hood, carrying a sickle. Her presence represented the destruction of everything they knew, plus the loss of their greatest religious shrines. Many of them were still in denial, going about their regular business. Others flashed her furtive glances as they scurried away, probably to catch a shuttlecraft or transport off the planet.
Ferengi and Bolian hawkers stood on the street corners, offering passage off Myrmidon for exorbitant prices. A thousand strips of latinum seemed to be the going rate. Although Deanna hadn’t dealt much with money, she knew that was a lot.
“Starfleet’s plan is a hoax!” one of the hawkers shouted loudly. “There’s no way to survive this thing. Look at what happened on Persephone V! Their plan is unproven and risky!”
Troi thought about stopping to refute his claim, but their plan was unproven and risky. So she walked on, feeling terrible about her cowardice. She couldn’t bear to speak to the Bolians, because when she looked at them, all she saw was death. It was the same horrible death which had claimed millions on Persephone V. She could envision their bodies being ripped apart, screams still frozen on their lips, as their flailing limbs sank into the churning morass this planet would soon become.
With a start, Deanna realized that she should really be under a counselor’s care herself, after what she had witnessed. But there weren’t enough counselors to go around.
Feeling despondent, she continued to walk down the sidewalk, gazing at the magnificent buildings, none of which would be here this time tomorrow. She shuffled past one of the geodesic domes, which was covered in a mosaic of inlaid gold, and a kindly voice said, “My child, rest a moment. You look weary.”
The Genesis Wave: Book One Page 25