[Star Trek TNG] - Double Helix Omnibus

by Peter David

  Riker staggered to his feet and looked around, unable to make out much in the darkness. If anyone was manning the reservoir, he couldn’t see them, and no one seemed interested in him. In the distance was a wavering light—it looked like no more than a campfire, but that was enough to give him a new destination. Now he wished he hadn’t lost his food.

  Picking his way carefully through the dark, Riker walked away from the reservoir and found himself on a dirt path. The closer he got to the wavering light in the distance, the more it actually looked like a campfire, and hope spurred him to walk faster. Soon he heard voices, talking rather loudly, as if they expected no one to be nearby. He couldn’t tell if it was friend or foe, but he doubted if his tormentors from the island would amuse themselves with anything as low-tech as a campfire. He was hoping these were Helenites—either rural workers or people who had fled the cities.

  As he staggered through the brush, he could see their seated silhouettes huddled around the campfire. With their backs to him, he had no idea who they were, but from their voices, he assumed they were mostly males. Riker figured he had better not charge into their midst without announcing himself, so when got close enough he cleared his throat loudly.

  “I’m Lieutenant Riker,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse and hollow in his own ears.

  The men jumped up as if a bomb had gone off, and he could see them grabbing what looked like weapons. In the dim firelight, he still couldn’t see their faces, but he wanted to appear harmless. So he held up his hands and said, “I’m with the Maquis. I got separated from my—”

  One of the men charged toward him, rifle leveled at his chest. In seconds, he got close enough for Riker to make out his bony face, black hair, and gray uniform.

  Cardassians! Riker thought momentarily about trying to escape, but how far could he run in his condition? In fact, he felt so weak that he didn’t think he could stand on his feet for much longer. But he kept his hands raised high and a smile glued to his bearded face.

  Unfortunately, Cardassians were not known for responding well to human charm. This one raised his phaser rifle and fired a searing beam that hit Riker in the chest. That was the last thing he remembered before he pitched forward into the dirt.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I TOLD YOU, CAPTAIN CHAKOTAY, I won’t give you any information until you take me away from Helena. That is my firm price.”

  The speaker, an Andorian named Bokor, sat stone-faced at his table in the Velvet Cluster dining room. Chakotay sat across from him, his hands folded before him and his face just as implacable as the blue-skinned alien’s. The Ferengi, Shep, sat between them, and he was the only one who looked animated, except for the servers who bustled around them importantly.

  “Don’t agree to anything,” Shep cautioned Chakotay. “Let me negotiate for both of us.”

  The Andorian laughed. “What have you got to bargain with, Ferengi? You don’t know anything, and you don’t have anything. All your goods are floating in orbit around the planet.”

  “I have my mind,” answered Shep, tapping his large frontal lobes. “And a strong desire to get out of here myself. Besides, I was right about Prefect Klain, wasn’t I?”

  “Yes, you were,” agreed Chakotay, his voice barely audible over the clink of glasses and ricochet of silverware. “That’s why I came back here—to see what else I could find out.”

  Bokor arched an eyebrow and waited until an older Catullan couple shuffled past. “Terrible thing about the prefect. Who ever thought he could be involved with this tragic disease? Everyone is talking about it. As I told you, Captain, I have a very valuable piece of information, but I won’t part with it for free.”

  “Bokor doesn’t know anything,” scoffed Shep. “So he talked to a few Cardassians who are also stranded here—big deal. Those bone-heads don’t know any more than the rest of us! Captain Chakotay is the only one with a starship—he’s the only one in a strong bargaining position.”

  The captain shrugged. “Actually I have three ships under my command, all of them in orbit: the Spartacus, the Singha, and a warp-drive shuttlecraft.”

  Now the Andorian leaned forward with avid interest. “A shuttlecraft, you say? Now that is something worth negotiating for, especially on Helena. How much gold-pressed latinum do you want? Name your price.”

  Chakotay smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Latinum doesn’t do me a bit of good—no place to spend it. Your information isn’t all that valuable either, because any fool could guess at it. The Cardassians must be planning to come back here with more ships—maybe a whole fleet. And when they do, we’ll run for it, and you’ll still be here. If the plague doesn’t get you, they will.”

  The Andorian scowled. “Make your point, Captain. What do you want?”

  “Don’t hurry him,” said the Ferengi, smiling. “A good negotiation must be savored, like good wine.”

  Chakotay leaned forward and whispered, “I need four things. It would be good to know exactly when Cardassian ships are returning, and in what strength. I also need to know what happened to my two missing crewmen. Just because you didn’t see them doesn’t mean the Cardassians don’t have them. We need to ask them point-blank if they know anything about Lieutenant Riker and Ensign Shelzane.”

  “What else?” grumbled the Andorian, not enjoying this tough negotiation as much as the Ferengi.

  Chakotay’s tattoo grew three-dimensional in the furrows of a deep frown. “Tuvok, the Vulcan on my crew, has been arrested for killing a man who was working with the people who brought this plague to Helena. If there is any sort of influence you could bring to bear on the officials, it would be appreciated.”

  Bokor snorted, and his antennae twitched. “Anything else, while we’re at it?”

  “Yes. Whoever takes that shuttlecraft has got to return it and the medical team to the Federation.”

  The Andorian groaned and slumped back in his chair, while the Ferengi nodded with satisfaction. “What will you say to that, Bokor?”

  “I’ll say that this human wants an awful lot for his shuttlecraft.”

  “That’s all I want from you,” said Chakotay. “From you, Shep, I want someone to gather information about Klain’s company, Genetic Enhancement. He’s still got confederates here on Helena, and we’ve got to run them down.”

  “I’m going on the shuttlecraft, too?” asked Shep excitedly.

  “Yes, because I reward those who help me.” Chakotay rose to his feet and looked at the Andorian, sensing other diners glancing at him. “Bokor, you still have your sea-glider, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll meet you at the bay in an hour, and we can take a little flight to look for my missing crew.”

  The Andorian scowled. “It will take us a day or two to get there.”

  “I have a shortcut,” promised the captain.

  “But I haven’t agreed to any of this yet!”

  Chakotay smiled. “You haven’t said no, so I’m taking that as a yes. You might want to load up some supplies to make it look good. See you in an hour.”

  The Maquis captain strode away from the table, with many of the members of the Velvet Cluster watching him go. Shep nodded his head in admiration. “For a hu-man, he’s an awfully good negotiator. Wouldn’t you say so, Bokor?”

  “A month ago, we would have laughed him out of the cluster.” The tall Andorian rose to his feet. “Now I had better put some supplies on my glider.”

  Tuvok sat in a cell with a force-field grid protecting the open door. There were three other cells linked with his, all of them opening onto a central corridor, but the other cells were empty. His jailers had left him reading material, food, and water, but he ignored these niceties to sit in silence and contemplate the actions that had landed him in this predicament.

  He had killed a man. The killing had clearly been in self-defense, but that knowledge didn’t assuage his conscience at all. For a Vulcan to take a life was a serious matter, a cause to doubt one’s t
raining and commitment to logic. For Tuvok, it was a cause to wonder what he was doing on the Maquis crew—a group of people who lived a life so dangerous that it might be called suicidal.

  He realized that he was only here because he was a spy, but that was also an illogical role for a Vulcan. For that very reason, he had been the logical member of Captain Janeway’s crew to infiltrate Chakotay’s ship. A Vulcan never lied, except when it was more logical than telling the truth, which was very seldom. Until this mission, his role as a spy had never troubled him much, because the actions of the Maquis were both illegal and illogical. But their actions on behalf of the inhabitants of Helena were noble and logical. The absence of the Federation was the only thing that was illogical.

  He was not ready to forsake his allegiance to the Federation, but for the first time he questioned the wisdom of a treaty that left innocent people so vulnerable. After recent events, he had no doubt that Helena had been chosen by unknown parties as a breeding ground for this disease for the very reason that it was isolated and vulnerable. A civilized society derived from the Federation, it was a perfect microcosm of the Federation as a whole. If anything, the mixed-species Helenites were more disease-resistant than a typical populace, which made them the perfect proving ground for a biological weapon. If the disease could succeed here, then no Federation planet was safe.

  But who would endanger millions of people for an experiment? Not even the Cardassians were so vile.

  That question brought him back to the life he had taken. A Vulcan never killed, except when it was absolutely necessary, and he could not say the death of the shopkeeper had been absolutely necessary. Had the shopkeeper lived, he might have furnished valuable information. Dead, he was nothing but a mystery, and a reason for the Helenites to distrust the Maquis. He was also the cause of Tuvok’s incarceration and imminent trial.

  Try as he might to justify his actions, Tuvok now saw that he had acted rashly. He thought back to his youth, when he had nearly rejected Vulcan philosophy in favor of passion and love. A wise teacher had steered him back onto the proper path, but the doubts always remained. Was he prone to acts of passion and poor judgment?

  Tuvok lay back on his narrow bunk, realizing that he couldn’t answer these questions himself. Perhaps he wouldn’t survive his stay on Helena, which made his introspection moot. One thing was certain—there was nothing like being incarcerated in a cell, awaiting trial for murder, to make a person think.

  Thomas Riker squinted into the blazing sun and licked his parched lips, wishing it was still night. He was lying in hot sand on the beach, imprisoned in a crude cage about a meter high and three meters long, made of sticks and wire. Had he any strength, he could probably smash his way out of this handmade cage in a few seconds, but he was extremely weak. His throat felt raw and his glands swollen; he couldn’t see himself, but he imagined from his peeling skin that he looked fairly awful.

  Riker knew he was dying of the plague.

  About thirty meters away, under a canopy that gave them ample shade, a group of ten Cardassians sat in a circle playing a dice game. Every now and then, one of them would look in his direction with a jaundiced eye, noting that he was still there, and still alive. Behind them on the bluff loomed a small fortress, which he assumed was the actual garrison, but it appeared eerily quiet, perhaps deserted.

  Riker turned to look at the vast ocean, glistening in the sunshine, incongruous in its beauty in the middle of his personal hell. He had always thought of oceans as a symbol of life and freedom, but this one seemed like a mirage, beckoning him to a freedom he could never attain. It mocked him with its ageless splendor, telling him that it would go on for eons and eons after he was gone. If this was to be the last thing he saw before he died, he almost wished it could be something not so achingly beautiful.

  He licked his lips again and rubbed his throbbing head. Riker felt as though he had been unconscious for days, but it had probably only been a few hours since the Cardassians had stunned him and tossed him into this cage. Looking around his enclosure, he figured it was some dead fisher-man’s lobster trap, or whatever the Helenite equivalent of lobster was. Would they make him die like this, staked out in the heat? Or would they at least give him the succor of food and water? Maybe he could goad them into killing him outright.

  “Hey!” Riker shouted, his voice sounding as rough as his shaggy beard. “Give me some water!”

  When the Cardassians did nothing but glance at him, he shouted, “Come on, you cowards! Afraid of an unarmed man?”

  The guards looked at him and laughed, but one of them stood and shuffled toward him. His phaser rifle was slung casually over his shoulder, as if he knew he needn’t fear this prisoner.

  He stopped about ten meters away from the cage and sneered. “We’re betting on how long it takes you to die. I’ve got you down for twenty-six hours. Think you can hold out that long?”

  “Maybe if I have a drink of water,” rasped Riker.

  The Cardassian shook his head. “Sorry, but we’re not allowed to aid you either one way or another. We can’t give you any food, drink, or medicine; and we can’t beat you senseless either. This has got to be a fair contest.”

  “What makes you such experts?” grumbled Riker. “Maybe I’ll live for a week.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve watched sixty percent of our own garrison die, so I have some experience. I’d say twenty-six hours is just about right, although you look pretty strong. Maybe I should’ve taken thirty.”

  The guard laughed, sounding oddly jovial and half insane. “I might not even be here in thirty hours to see you die. It’s just as well that I took twenty-six.”

  “Where are you going to be?” asked Riker hoarsely.

  “Far away from this pesthole.” He turned and shuffled back to his comrades.

  Riker laid his head on the hot sand and wondered if he could burrow into it for some protection from the sun. But the wooden bars extended underneath the cage, and he didn’t have the strength to break them. He supposed he could untwist the wires that held the structure together, but his captors were sure to notice him working on it.

  Bored, he turned back to look at the endless sky, stretching across the blue sheen of the ocean. Yes, he was going to die—and the way he felt now, he didn’t think it would even take twenty-six hours. It was best to sleep, he decided, and conserve his strength, while waiting for a miracle to happen.

  Who am I kidding? thought Riker. Miracles happen to other people, not to me. What did the old blues song say? “If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all.”

  Just before he closed his eyes, he caught sight of something in the clear blue sky. Riker rubbed his eyes and peered into the glare, wondering if it was real or only his fevered imagination. After several seconds, the apparition was still there—it looked like another one of those sea-gliders, headed their way.

  A sudden babble of voices made him turn to look at the Cardassians under the canopy. They had seen the glider, too, and a few of them rose to their feet and took up arms in apparent defense of this lonely stretch of beach. Others remained seated in the sand, lethargic and apathetic; they looked every bit as resigned to death as he was.

  He struggled to listen to their conversation against the gentle flow of the waves to the shore. “It must be Bokor,” said one. “Did we order more supplies?” asked another.

  Supplies? Riker turned to watch the white glider make its graceful approach. Hope sprang unbidden to his heart, although he knew such hope was pointless. Anyone who dealt with the Cardassians wasn’t likely to save him, or even care if he lived or died.

  The approach and landing of the seaplane was quite impressive as it glided across the creamy water and set down on its sleek pontoons with barely a splash. Half of the ten Cardassians formed a line in the sand, although they kept a safe distance away from him. There appeared to be two people in the craft, and one of them opened the hatch.

  The visitor threw something into the water�
��it was a compressed-air raft, which instantly expanded to its full size. Riker watched with interest as a gangly Andorian stepped gingerly into the raft, oar in hand, and began rowing leisurely toward the shore. The Cardassians on the beach began to relax, apparently not viewing this new arrival as a threat. Some of them went back to their dice game.

  The raft scraped into the sand, and the Andorian climbed out, trying to maintain his dignity as best he could in the tiny boat. As he strolled past Riker, he looked at him with mild interest, although he didn’t stop to talk. His destination was clearly the Cardassians and the fortress on the hill.

  “Bokor!” shouted one of them with disapproval. “What are you doing here?”

  The Andorian shrugged. “Just making my rounds. I thought I’d see if you needed anything. I’ve got some nice salted fish and a case of Rigelian ale.”

  “Go away, you scavenger!” yelled another Cardassian, although he didn’t sound very angry. “We don’t need anything, except to get off this lousy rock.”

  “I can’t help you there,” said the Andorian with a resigned smile. He pointed to Riker in the cage. “I see you’ve found some entertainment.”

  “Yeah, one of those meddling Maquis. But he’s not going to last long—he’s got the plague.”

  “Oh,” muttered the visitor. “Are you sure you don’t need anything? Your great fleet hasn’t shown up yet.”

  “They will. They’re on their way. Now get out of here, before we put you in a cage, too!” At that remark, there was a round of laughter among the Cardassians.

  “Okay,” said the Andorian, holding his hands up. “I’m not looking for trouble, just customers.”

  “Who’s that in your glider?” asked another guard, peering suspiciously at the sleek craft floating in the surf.