Double Helix #5 - Double or Nothing

by Peter David

  “Captain, as much as I appreciate the assorted barnyard analogies, I maintain that something doesn’t seem right. I suggest we hold our position. Make them come to us.”

  “I’ve had a lot more dealings with Romulans than you, commander, with all due respect,” Riker said firmly. “I know how they operate.”

  “What if they’ve changed their method of opera­tion?”

  The eyes of the bridge crew were going back and forth, from Shelby to Riker and back, as if they were watching a tennis match. McHenry, meantime, oper­ating on his last instructions, kept the starship moving forward.

  “Sir, I’m telling you, they’re up to something. I can feel it,” Shelby said.

  “And how would you suggest we find out just what it is they’re ‘up to,’ Commander?” Riker tried to keep his voice even, but it was difficult to refrain from sar­casm.

  “For what it’s worth,” offered McHenry, “we may be able to ask them face-to-face. At this course and speed, if they don’t back down, we’re going to collide with one of them in two minutes, ten seconds.”

  “It won’t come to that,” Riker said. “Even if they open fire, it won’t be with anything our shields can’t handle. We’ll do far worse damage with return fire. They can’t afford a pitched battle. They won’t want to, either. It’s not the Romulan way.”

  “Captain…” Shelby said, with clear exasperation in her voice.

  But the more annoyed Shelby got, the calmer Riker felt. “Commander…we’re not going to run from two Romulan vessels who don’t even have us targeted. That would send a message that none of us wants to send. Understood?” he said in a tone that indicated no further discussion would be appreciated.

  Shelby straightened up in her chair, moved her gaze solidly to the screen, and without looking at Riker, said, “Aye, sir.”

  The Excalibur drew closer, closer still. And still the Romulans weren’t moving.

  “Contact, one minute,” McHenry said.

  “Fire a warning shot across the lead ship’s bow.”

  Kebron promptly did so, a phaser lancing out and narrowly missing the lead Romulan warbird’s bow section. Still, the vessels didn’t move.

  “Attention Romulan vessels,” Riker said firmly over the open hailing channels. “We are not turning off course, repeat, we are not turning off course. You are instructed to vacate the area immediately. If you do not, we will fire, repeat, we will fire. Reply.”

  “Sir!” Soleta informed him. “The ships are moving off. They are powering down their weapons.”

  McHenry, who was not particularly looking forward to the prospect of slamming the Excalibur into a Ro­mulan warbird, let out an audible sigh of relief.

  Riker turned to Shelby and said, “I would have to say that constitutes a reply, wouldn’t you, Command­er?” But Shelby said nothing in response. Riker could only chalk it up to being a poor sport. All-business, Riker turned to McHenry and said, “All right, Lieuten-ant…let’s remember that the purpose of this is to track them to whatever base they may be operating from. They’ll likely go into warp, and that’s when we’ll have to—”

  And that was when McHenry’s board shut down completely. McHenry gaped at the sudden loss of his instrumentation. It wasn’t as if he needed it, but nonetheless the fact that it had abruptly gone south was disconcerting. “Uhm, sir…we may have a prob­lem…”

  “Tactical systems down,” Kebron announced.

  “All sensors, all scanners down,” Soleta said.

  “Lefler, what the hell is going on with shipboard?” Riker demanded.

  Lefler desperately tried to make sense of it, but the answer she was coming back with was virtually incom­prehensible. Her fingers flew over the control padds, but nothing was coming back at her. “Sir…” she said with a tone of pure incredulity, “our computer’s crashed.”

  “What?”

  The entire bridge was promptly plunged into total blackness. The front viewing screen went blank. Mo­ments later, the emergency lights came on, giving the ship’s command center an eerie Halloween-esque glow. Riker was on his feet, leaning over Lefler’s ops station. He couldn’t believe it. “Our power is done…?”

  “Not a power loss, sir. Power’s all still there. But the computer routes everything, unless we tell it oth­erwise,” Lefler said. “The only thing that’s functioning at the moment is the emergency life support system. That’s a bottom line fail safe. But otherwise we’re dead in space. No guidance systems, no weaponry, no shields…nothing!”

  “Find a way to get us out of here,” Riker ordered.

  “Quick, let’s crack out the oars,” suggested McHenry.

  “Stow it, lieutenant!” Shelby said, also out of her chair. “We have got zero time before the Romulans move in on us. Lefler, try to reroute via manual…”

  Suddenly the air in the bridge began to shimmer, and an all-too-recognizable hum sounded within the confined area. And Riker knew, even before they materialized, what he was going to see.

  A Romulan raiding party, fully armed and ready to annihilate anyone who opposed them, appeared dead center of the bridge. And standing foursquare in the front, with her finger on a trigger and a smirk on her face, was Sela.

  “Hello, Will,” she purred. “Miss me? Because this time, I won’t miss you.” And she aimed her phaser straight at his face.

  XIII.

  LODEC LOOKED AT HIS REFLECTION in the polished wall and barely recognized himself.

  Naturally he still possessed the bronze skin that marked him as one of the Danteri race. But his hair was dirty and matted, his beard thick and scraggly. Oddly enough, it may have been that, even more than his imprisonment itself, that was the most depressing thing with which he had to contend. For Lodec had once been a soldier, and his training, his very essence, cried out for a neat and trim presentation to the world. Servitude, lack of freedom…these he could handle. But being reduced to looking like a slob? It was more than he should have had to bear.

  Somehow, though, he suspected that those who were running the Andorian prison ship that he was being held upon weren’t going to be sympathetic to his plight.

  Lodec coughed again, but none of the other prison­ers who were in the cramped barracks with him paid any attention. He felt a deep rattling about in his throat and would have been most grateful for some sort of medication to ease the congestion before it grew into something far worse. But nothing was forthcoming from the Andorians.

  Gods, did he hate the Andorians.

  The blue skin was almost hurtful to his eyes, it was so glaring. When they spoke, the Andorians did so in a sort of whisper that almost made them seem the most polite of races. But the ones who were running the vessel were among the most sadistic bastards that Lodec had ever had the opportunity of dealing with. They would deprive the prisoners of food for days on end, and when they did give them sustenance, it was so wretched that it became almost impossible to hold it down. In many instances it was, in fact, impossible, and the stench of the heaved food would hang in the air of the cells for ages until the hideously slow filtra­tion system finally expunged them.

  The worst thing of all was that there was really no need for the transportation of the prisoners to take so damned long. The transport was equipped with warp drive, and could easily have gotten to its destin­ation within a few days. Instead, it was taking its own sweet time, proceeding mostly on impulse drive, util­izing warp only every so often when proceeding through areas of space where prolonged travel might result in jeopardy to the crew (since the crew didn’t give a damn about the cargo). There were a couple of theories among the prisoners as to why it was tak­ing so damned long. One was that the prison for which they were bound was overcrowded, and they were waiting either for prisoners aboard the transport or prisoners at the receiving end to die in order to free up space. Another theory was that it was simply part of the softening-up process. Prison officials didn’t want to have to deal with prisoners who might have some fight left in them. So their spir
its were battered and broken along the way, making them nice and malleable when they arrived.

  And so one day stretched out into another for Lodec and the others who had been luckless enough to transgress against the Andorians.

  He lay on his bunk in the cramped quarters that he shared with a number of other prisoners and mur­mured to himself, “This is not how my life was sup­posed to turn out.”

  Suddenly the door to the quarters slid open, the glare of light from the hallway outside nearly blinding as his eyes tried to adjust. Standing in the doorway was Macaskill, the transport commander who was exceptionally softspoken—even for an Andorian—and exceptionally ruthless—even for an Androian. He was an older Andorian, his skin a more pale blue than the others, but that made him no less deadly.

  “I’m looking for volunteers,” he whispered, so much so that Lodec had to strain to hear him. As the pris­oners blinked to get the sleep from their eyes, Lodec glanced around and then pointed at several in rapid succession: “You,” he said, “and you…and you. And you.” And one of the ones he chose was Lodec.

  Slowly, Lodec sat up. He rubbed at his wrists which, as always, had the electronic manacles secured to them. He let out a long, unsteady sigh, but knew better than to ask what was so important that they had to be rousted from bed at that time of night. He wasn’t likely to get any sort of answer in any event, and far more likely that he’d simply get a major shock pounded through him. That was certainly not aggrav­ation that he needed. Besides, when one got right down to it, what did it matter if he knew what was going on or not? He was still going to have to do what he was told anyway. His life was not his own, and had not been for some time.

  Then, to his surprise, one of the other prisoners asked the very question that he hadn’t seen fit to risk punishment over: “What’s this all about?” It was a Pazinian, a very small and harmless-looking species, with a perpetually wistful look on its vaguely avian face. His voice was high-pitched and reedy.

  To his even greater astonishment, Macaskill answered without hesitation. “We’ve come upon a small freighter in distress, and will be requiring your volunteered aid to unload its cargo,” he said. “We are not in the salvage business, of course. But it turns out that the pilot’s carrying a shipment of gold-pressed latinum. Naturally, in good conscience, we could not turn away from a sentient being in need.”

  “Or from the latinum?” asked the Pazinian.

  “Naturally,” Macaskill said. “That goes without saying.” Macaskill then tapped a small control device on his wrist…and energy lanced through the Pazinian, his arms flying out to either side as if he’d been cruci­fied. He let out a shriek and collapsed to the ground, quivering and spasming as Macaskill continued calmly, “On that basis, you probably should not have said it.

  He then turned to another prisoner, pointed and indicated that he should take the Pazinian’s place. “The freighter is presently in our main bay. We’re drafting you to help unload it. May I safely assume there will be no further questions?”

  It was an eminently safe assumption. And as they filed out, Lodec couldn’t help but wonder if the Pazinian had simply been that anxious to get out of helping with the shipment. It seemed a rather extreme thing to do just to get out of some work. On the other hand, as the Pazinian lay there insensate, Lodec mused upon the fact that at least the Pazinian had gotten to go back to sleep.

  They trudged down to the main bay in silence, several Andorian guards falling into step alongside them. In point of fact, they weren’t really needed. The manacles were more than enough to keep the prison­ers from fighting back or even, absurdity of absurdit­ies, escaping. But their presence helped to pile on the feeling of hopelessness. Talking was actively discour­aged, under all circumstances. The Andorians had means of eavesdropping even when the prisoners were by themselves. The captors didn’t want to take any chances that the captives might put together some sort of breakout strategy. Lodec tried at one point to stifle a loud yawn, but was unable to do so. This got him a fairly fierce scowl from one of the guards, but no further recriminations, and he considered himself extremely lucky.

  They arrived in the main bay, and sure enough, there it was: A reasonably small freighter. There was nothing particularly impressive-looking about it. In fact, it seemed rather old and worn out, the hull dis­tressed and pockmarked with years of service in the harsh vacuum of space. The obvious captain of the ship was standing just outside the main door of the freighter, engaged in what appeared to be a fairly animated discussion with one of the Andorian guards.

  The freighter captain turned and looked at Lodec with what appeared to be bottomless purple eyes. In a heartbeat, Lodec knew the man was a Xenexian. Then he saw the scar that ran down the side of the man’s face…

  …and he knew exactly which Xenexian it was.

  He had absolutely no idea how to react. He had heard many conflicting reports about the life of the rebel outlaw who had broken Xenex from the control of Danter. Lodec had never had the opportunity to come face to face in battle with M’k’n’zy of Calhoun, but he had certainly heard enough about him. Moreover, he had lost a number of friends to Cal-houn’s fabled sword, strength and resourcefulness.

  Ostensibly, he had heard that Calhoun had then left Xenex once freedom was established and joined Starfleet. But his awareness of Calhoun had eroded over the years. There had been rumors that he had left Starfleet, that he had taken up an aimless, freel­ance life. It seemed a rather pathetic existence for one who had once been the warlord of Xenex and one of his people’s greatest heroes. Lodec had always thought, though, that people such as M’k’n’zy were simply destructive types at their core. When they turned their destructive tendencies outward, they could accomplish amazing feats that left enemies stunned. But when they had no opponents before them, that selfsame destruction often wound up turning inward, and they would slowly diminish themselves until their greatness faded to nothing.

  And now here was evidence that all that he had heard was true. The great M’k’n’zy of Calhoun, re­duced to being a common freighter pilot. Probably an underhanded one at that, transporting gold-pressed latinum. For all Lodec knew, Calhoun was even in the process of stealing it.

  Macaskill had stridden up to M’k’n’zy, and in his customarily soft voice, he said, “So…I understand your name is Calhoun.”

  Calhoun nodded. Obviously he wasn’t going by an assumed name. How very foolish.

  “I am Macaskill…your savior.”

  “I appreciate the help,” Calhoun told him. But there was an expression in his face that indicated he knew that the help would not come without a price. Sure enough, he said, “So…I assume that you’ll be seeking some sort of finder’s fee.”

  “We did find you,” agreed Macaskill. “We have taken the time to expend our resources in aiding you. Your ship is not functioning; you will require us to repair it, I trust.”

  “How much are we talking about?” asked Calhoun, clearly resigned to the inevitable.

  “Does ten percent seem fair to you?”

  Calhoun looked surprised. “It…does indeed. I have to admit, I thought you’d be looking for much more than that. But a ten percent commission seems more than fair.”

  “No…you don’t understand,” Macaskill said. His smile displayed a perfect row of white teeth. “Ten percent of your cargo…is what you will be left with.”

  “What!” Calhoun clearly couldn’t believe it. He stomped back and forth a few feet, shaking his head and gesticulating wildly. “What!” he said again. “Look, you don’t understand! This isn’t my latinum! I’m just transporting it! A ten percent loss, at least I can cover that by giving up a portion of my fee…grozit, prob­ably all of my fee. But if you walk off with ninety percent of the cargo, the people I’m supposed to be delivering it to aren’t going to be happy! To be spe­cific, they’re going to be rather angry, and they’ll be taking out that anger on me! If you gut me that much, I’m dead!”

  “No. If we toss you i
nto space, you’re dead,” the Andorian politely corrected him. “If we fix your ship and leave you ten percent of your cargo, we are giving you a fighting chance. But if you do not wish to have that chance…”

  And he extended a hand in the general direction of the airlock.

  “I will give you precisely two standard minutes to make up your mind,” said the Andorian, “although I strongly suspect what your answer will be.”

  Calhoun, looking stunned, walked in the general direction of the prisoners. He was shaking his head in disbelief, clearly unable to deal with what had happened. The pity that Lodec felt for him grew and grew. Poor devil, indeed, to have fallen this low.

  And then, as Calhoun drew within a few feet of the prisoners, his gaze shifted—ever so slightly—in Lo-dec’s direction. And something seemed to come alive in his face, an almost fearful determination that Lodec had no idea how to interpret. Then Lodec saw Cal-houn’s mouth move silently, addressing the mute question to him: Lodec?

  Lodec nodded imperceptibly. He had no clue as to what to expect.

  Calhoun mouthed two more words: Hold on.

  At which point, Lodec forgot himself. Out loud, he said, “Hold on? To what?”

  The confused comment drew a puzzled look from Macaskill. “Prisoner…who told you you could speak? Calhoun…it’s time for you to admit the hopelessness of your situation. If you will cooperate, perhaps we can be generous and provide you with an additional five percent of—”

  Calhoun turned to face Macaskill, and his attitude had completely changed. He was standing straighter, more determined, and utterly confident. And he called

  out, “Freighter! Execute offensive preprogram one!”

  “What are you—?” Macaskill demanded.

  He didn’t get the entire question out as the freighter—which had previously been thought dead in space—roared to life.

  From the sides of the vessel, white mist blasted out in all directions. Lodec stared, still not grasping what in the world was happening, and suddenly Calhoun was at his side. He was slapping some sort of unit on Lodec’s face, a breathing device with goggles attached. Calhoun already had an identical device affixed to his own face. “Come on. We’re leaving,” Calhoun told him curtly.