Double Helix #5 - Double or Nothing

by Peter David

  The doors to the Medlab hissed open, and Com­mander Shelby entered. “Commander Riker” she called.

  “Yes, Commander?”

  “I was just informed by the captain that we’re receiv­ing an incoming message from Starfleet, and appar­ently our presence has been requested.”

  “And you came down to get me yourself?”

  “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.”

  “I see. Very considerate of you.” He headed for the door, stopping only to nod slightly to Doctor Selar and say, “Doctor.”

  “Commander,” she nodded in acknowledgment as she went about her business.

  Riker and Shelby headed down the corridor and into a turbolift. Waiting until the door had slid shut and they had privacy, Riker turned to Shelby and said, “Would you mind telling me what the hell is Doctor Selar’s problem?”

  “Problem? Oh,” she said as if just realizing, “the mood swings.”

  “Is that what those were? It’s not Bendii, is it?

  “No. Pregnancy. And when the father is a slightly flighty Hermat, with whom the doctor has formed a close psychic bond due to their intimacy which has permeated her entire personality, well…”

  “Wait a minute. She’s pregnant?”

  “Yes.”

  “But the father is a Hermat?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hermats…that race that has both male and fe­male—”

  “Correct again.”

  “And they’ve formed a psychic bond because…?”

  “Of reasons too complicated and, frankly, delicate to go into.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not good enough.”

  She had looked amused at the situation up until that point. But now she studied Riker as if he were a single-celled organism under a microscope and said, “I’m afraid it’s more than good enough. I remind you, Commander, that Captain Calhoun is in charge of this vessel, and not you. You are simply a visitor…a refugee, if you will. Captain Calhoun obviously feels that Doctor Selar is capable of carrying out her duties. His judgment is not only to be respected, but particu­larly in your case, it’s not to be second-guessed. Do I make myself clear, Commander?”

  “Commander,” and he folded his arms across his broad chest, “I am not about to try and undercut a CO. But by the same token, I will speak my mind where I see fit.”

  “You do that. And of course, if you wish to show us the best way to go about running a ship, you can just head back to the ship that you’re command-ing…oh! Wait!” She slapped her forehead with her open palm as if she had just recalled something fairly crucial. “That’s right. You don’t have a command of your own. Do you? Perhaps the next time one is offered you, it would be in your best interests to take it, because sooner or later, they’ll stop offering.”

  Riker said nothing, but he couldn’t help but feel that the temperature in the turbolift had just dropped rather precipitously.

  Calhoun glanced up as Riker and Shelby entered the captain’s ready room. They walked in several feet, both stopped, smiled gamely in perfect unison, and stood at parade rest. He looked from one to the other.

  “Have a tiff, did we?” he inquired.

  “Simply a spirited discussion, sir,” Shelby said. Riker nodded slightly in affirmation.

  “Mm hmm.” Believing that it would probably be wiser not to pursue it, he called out, “Bridge to Lefler. We’re ready. Put the comm through.”

  When the face of the Starfleet officer calling them came on screen, no one could have been more sur­prised than Calhoun. He hadn’t been expecting any­one in particular, and yet, despite that, this was the last person he was expecting.

  One would not, however, have had any inkling of his astonishment from his voice. Instead, without blinking an eye, he said, “Admiral Nechayev. A pleasure as always. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. This business is a bit outside your normal pur­view, isn’t it?”

  Nechayev looked a bit older than when he’d last seen her. A little jowlier, a little grayer. He’d always been impressed how little the strains of her job seemed to weigh on her, but he had to assume that time caught up with everyone…even the Iron Woman of Starfleet. “My purview tends to expand as the need arises,” she said drily. “Commander Riker, it’s good to see you hale and whole. Your loss would have been a terrible blow to the public relations plans for the bicentennial.”

  Riker bowed slightly at the waist. “I appreciate your concern, Admiral.”

  “There’s humanitarian concerns as well, of course, plus Starfleet’s interest in the money they’ve invested in you as an officer…but those worries would likely be outside my purview, and I wouldn’t want to tempt Captain Calhoun’s wrath.”

  Calhoun noticed Shelby hiding a smile behind her hand, but he chose not to comment on it.

  Quickly becoming all-business, Nechayev said, “And how is Captain Garfield?”

  “I believe Commander Riker was the last one to speak with him.” Calhoun half-turned in his chair and looked to Riker.

  Riker nodded briskly. “If anything, I’d say he’s somewhat in shock.”

  “If he weren’t, I’d think there’s something wrong with him. Poor George. A good man. He, and his crew, deserved better than this.” She shook her head, a grim expression on her face. Then she continued, “A transport is under way, Captain, as promised. You will leave Thallonian space and proceed to Deep Space 4, where you will discharge your passengers. And you, captain, will join them.”

  There was a brief moment of unspoken confusion in the ready room. “I’m sorry…say again, Admiral?” said Calhoun. “I’m joining them on Deep Space 4?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And the Excalibur is to remain on station for how long?”

  “She is not to wait for you. I will be meeting with you on DS4, to discuss a matter of some urgency. The Excalibur is to return immediately to Thallonian space and continue the investigation of this Romulan attack. We’ve put our best people on it, and they’ve come up with one or two possibilities: Either it was random chance that the Romulans intercepted the Independence where they did, or else there’s a secret Romulan stronghold somewhere in Thallonian space.”

  “Thank heavens we had the best minds in Starfleet to come up with that,” Shelby commented. The remark was, of course, not lost on Calhoun. He knew per­fectly well that Shelby had come to the exact same conclusions all on her own. It was probably Eliza-beth’s greatest curse, he decided, to feel that she was consistently undervalued as an officer. Not only was she hungry for her own command and feeling thwarted that she hadn’t received it yet, but he knew that she still felt a certain degree of “exile” in her cur­rent post as second-in-command to Calhoun. She be­lieved she was ready for a command of her own, and truth to tell, so did Calhoun. That didn’t stop him from valuing her contributions and presence as first officer. There was probably no one else in Starfleet whose advice Calhoun would readily listen to, even though he frequently gave Shelby the impression that he was hardly attending to anything she said.

  “Either way,” Nechayev was saying, “we want the Excalibur to look into the matter and see what you can discern either way.”

  “How long will I be away from her?” Calhoun asked.

  “Impossible to say at this point.”

  But Calhoun wasn’t really listening to what she was saying. Instead he was attending to what she wasn’t saying…and it spoke volumes.

  Some years earlier, Calhoun had departed Starfleet under rather acrimonious circumstances. It had been Nechayev who had seen a potential waste of material and had drafted Calhoun to work freelance for The Division of Starfleet Intelligence, that she oversaw. Her connection to SI was not widely known. She had other, more prominent and promoted duties to which she attended, most of which simply served as cover for her SI responsibilities. After all, it wouldn’t do for any communiqu from Nechayevs office to immediately carry with it a likelihood that there was something going on with Starfl
eet Intelligence. Notoriety is counterproductive to secrecy.

  But Calhoun, who had done a number of jobs for her on his own, knew all too well. He also knew that DS4 was an outpost station for SI, another fact that was neatly hidden from the public at large. If Nechayev was meeting him there, it was because she wanted to assign him to something. He wasnt especially sanguine about it, considering those days long behind him. But he was also aware that if Nechayev had targeted him for an SI assignment, then there had to be a pretty damned good reason. She wouldnt be removing him as captain merely on a whim. He trusted her judgment that much, at least. Stillhe was beginning to wonder whether this might actually be a precursor to an extended departure from the Ex­calibur, or even a permanent loss of command as Starfleet arbitrarily decided that his talents could better be served elsewhere than the bridge of a starship.

  As if reading his mind—which he was convinced Nechayev was actually capable, on occasion, of do-ing—Nechayev smiled and added, “Don’t worry, captain. It won’t be indefinite. Simply a matter that needs to be attended to. You’ll be back with your ship as soon as possible.”

  “Very well.” Although his next remark was ad­dressed to Nechayev, he was looking at Shelby when he said it. “I have every confidence that the Excalibur will be in good hands during my absence.” Shelby inclined her head slightly in response as if to say, Thank you.

  “As are we,’’ Nechayev said. “Commander Riker has proven his capability time and again, and we are certain he won’t disappoint us this time, either.”

  The words hung there. Of everyone in the room, it was Riker who seemed the most astounded. “Admir-al…I assumed that I would be departing on DS4, to head back for the bicentennial…”

  “Never assume, Commander. It makes an ass of ‘u’ and ‘me.’ Well…not of me, in this case, but you get the idea. Did they never teach you that at the Academy?”

  “Yes, they did, but I…”

  “The simple fact, Commander, is that we’re taking advantage of your presence there. You not only have more experience with Romulans than does Command­er Shelby, but you’re certainly the most familiar with the operative named Sela. You know how she thinks, how she plans…you can likely second-guess her strategies. You will receive a field promotion to ‘cap­tain’ for the duration of your stay aboard the Ex­calibur, and assume command as soon as Captain Calhoun has departed.”

  “But Admiral, I…” He glanced at Shelby, whose face was a mask, and said, “it’s my belief that Com­mander Shelby is perfectly capable…”

  “That is my belief as well. But I believe you to be more so, and intend to exploit that. Commander Riker,” and there was just a hint of warning in her voice, “are you turning down a command…again?”

  There was a momentary silence, and then Riker drew himself up and said crisply, “No, ma’am.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Captain Calhoun, I shall see you shortly. Captain Riker…good luck and good hunting. And if you have any difficulties, I know we can count on Commander Shelby to give you full back-up.”

  “Absolutely, ma’am,” Shelby said without hesita­tion.

  “Starfleet out.”

  No one said anything for a time, and then Calhoun said, “Commander…I’m sorry, Captain…Riker…since apparently you’ll be here for a time, I suggest you go down to ship’s stores and obtain some things you might need, considering that whatever possessions you were travelling with were blown up. Some off-duty clothing, toothbrush, that sort of thing. I’ll have Miss Lefler give you a more detailed tour of the ship at your earliest convenience, and introduce you to some of the key personnel. We’re a rather…relaxed group around here. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”

  “I’m sure I will, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Riker turned and left. Shelby didn’t even glance after him. Instead her gaze was focused on the now-blank screen that Nechayev had been on moments later.

  “Are you going to be all right, Elizabeth?” he asked with as much genuine concern as he could get into his voice.

  “Not…immediately. In a while, perhaps…but not immediately.”

  She stopped talking and simply stood there, still staring at the screen. She didn’t seem to show any inclination to leave, but she appeared so seized with contained rage that she couldn’t quite figure out the best way to move.

  Calhoun picked up the remaining green ball. “In point of fact,” he said slowly, “it was Nechayev who gave me these…well…this. Would you care to…?” He extended the ball to her.

  She took it from him, stared at it for a moment. Then, her face twisted into a picture of silent fury, she cocked her arm, and let fly.

  The ball struck the monitor screen, ricocheted back, and Shelby had to duck to avoid being struck in the head. The ball bounced back from the far wall and landed squarely in Calhoun’s hand.

  Slowly Calhoun stood up from behind his desk and stared down at Shelby, who sat, shaking her head. “I actually assumed you were simply going to squeeze it. But, as the lady said, never assume.” He waited for response and, when he didn’t get one immediately, ventured to add, “Not your day, is it, Eppy.”

  “Not my lifetime, Mac. Not my lifetime.”

  V.

  THE PUBS OF ARGELIUS II were reputed to have the absolutely best dancers in the entire quadrant, and it was there that Zolon Darg had journeyed as part of what had become his eternal quest. He was looking for a dancer who would expunge the memories of…her.

  After all this time, the recollection of Vandelia still remained with him. When he closed his eyes, he could see the curves and lines of her body. He could see her breasts upthrust. He could see the saucy smile, the come-hither look in her eyes, the temptation and raw sex that radiated from her body with the clarity of light from a star. And most important of all, he could see his hands at her throat, strangling her for the way that she had turned on him, tricked him, brought down his entire operation in flames around his head. Her and that friend of hers, that “Mac.”

  Darg had many friends and a long reach, but Vandelia was still just one person, and it was a big galaxy with lots of places to hide if one was so inclined. She had probably changed her name, perhaps even left the quadrant entirely. Who knew for sure? If she’d taken it into her head, she might even have booked passage on a ship and gone through the Bajoran wormhole into the Delta quadrant to explore new territories and possibilities there. Who knew? Who cared?

  He cared. She was a dangling loose end that he hoped he would one day be able to tie off, and he would do so by tying it off around her neck.

  In the meantime, this dancer that he was now watching was a pleasant enough diversion.

  She was not Orion, by any means. Her skin was milky white, for starters, and her long black hair managed to tantalizingly cover her bare breasts at all times. It was somewhat amazing, really. She went by the name of Kat’leen, and her gyrating body was a joy to behold. Her stomach was remarkably muscled, and her legs seemed to go on forever. She kept time in her dance with small finger cymbals, and an enthu­siastic drummer pounded away nearby. Darg found himself unconsciously keeping time with a steady beat on the table.

  He fingered the glass on the table and realized, with a distant disappointment, that it was empty. “Shun­abo, get me another drink,” he ordered to his second-in-command, and then came to the hazy recollection that Shunabo wasn’t there, mostly due to the fact—that in a fit of pique—he had killed him. The action seemed rather harsh, in retrospect. Shunabo had served him well, and it was just remotely possible that he did not, in fact, deserve what had happened to him.

  “Well…so what,” Darg growled to no one after a moment’s thought. ” ‘Deserve’ has nothing to do with it. He was becoming full of himself. A danger. If a man’s going to watch my back, I have to be sure he’s not going to stick a knife in it. I don’t need a man who’s going to openly defy me.” Whether, in fact, Shunabo had openly defied him was a bit fuzzy in Darg’s mind. The drink wasn’
t helping to keep him clear.

  Kat’leen’s dance drew to its enticing climax, and then she sprawled on the floor, her legs drawn togeth­er, her arms spread wide, her hair once again strategic­ally placed in such a way that Zolon Darg began to wonder if the damned stuff had a life of its own. All around him, lights were clicking on and off furiously on the table tops, which was the standard Argelius means of showing approval.

  The one exception was a human over in the corner. A heavy-set, gray-haired, mustached man, he was pounding on the table and whistling shrilly between his teeth. He had a large bottle of some liquid that appeared to be green positioned in front of him, and he had clearly been at it for a while. His raucous be­havior drew glares from some of the more reserved patrons who liked everything “just so.” Darg watched in amusement as the owner of the establishment ap­proached the gray-haired gentleman and clearly, with some polite gestures, indicated that perhaps it was time he take his business elsewhere. With a growl and a burst of what was likely some sort of profan-ity—but spoken with such a thick terran accent of some sort that Darg couldn’t even begin to compre­hend it—the gray-haired man swayed out of the pub and into the street.

  Darg promptly forgot about him, instead deciding that now would likely be the most opportune time to approach the young lady. Kat’leen was just in the process of drawing a type of shawl across her shoulders. Darg found it rather charming in a way. When she danced, it was with complete lack of inhib­ition as she practically basked in her sexuality. But now that the dance was over, she seemed almost shy. Not in a shrinking, frightened sort of way. Just a bit more…modest…than she had been.

  “Yes?” she said, one eyebrow raised as Darg ap­proached.

  “You dance magnificently,” he told her.

  “Thank you.” She seemed to be looking him up and down, trying to get a feeling for the type of man he was.