by Peter David
Chakotay tapped his combadge. “Seska, do you read me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to take off and fly over Astar, destroying buildings at random. In fact, go ahead and level the entire city. You can start with the Dawn Cluster.”
“Yes, sir. Preparing to launch.”
The Helenite official blanched, paling several shades. “You can’t do that! It’s…it’s against the laws of decency!”
“I make my own laws,” snapped Chakotay. “I’m Maquis.”
The stout Helenite gulped, then he looked around at his fellow citizens, whose expressions made it clear that they didn’t want their city destroyed in order to make a dubious point. They slowly backed away, except for Dr. Gammet, who pushed through the crowd.
“Let the Vulcan go, will you!” pleaded the doctor. “These people are dying for us. They’ve risked their lives and their freedom for us. Our own Coastal Watchers are shooting down gliders that try to land here. Our own Prefect Klain was partly responsible for this horrible disease. These are not normal times.”
After a moment, the official heaved a sigh. “All right, come with me.” He motioned them toward his hovercraft.
Chakotay tapped his combadge. “Belay that last order, Seska.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, sounding relieved. “What’s the real plan?”
“Right now, we’re going to get Tuvok out of jail. Stay prepped for launch, because we’re taking the ship into hiding. We’re going to keep helping sick people for as long we can. Chakotay out.”
Dr. Gammet stepped up to the captain and warmly shook his hand. “Captain, I don’t think we can ever express our gratitude for what you’ve tried to do for us. No matter how it turns out, we know you’ve done all you can. We may not be able to erect any statues to you, but the Maquis will always be heroes to us.”
“Hear! Hear!” yelled someone in the crowd. Spontaneous applause erupted, and several Helenites patted Chakotay on the back. He could still see fear and uncertainty in their eyes, but there was also genuine affection.
“I’ll keep the clinics open,” vowed Gammet. “You leave it to me.”
Chakotay nodded, unable to find words to express his own feelings. Moments like this were few and far between for the Maquis, although they were the only reason the Maquis existed at all. When he turned to follow Torres and the official to the hovercraft, he felt a familiar tug on his shirt sleeve. It was Shep.
“What about the shuttlecraft?” asked the Ferengi. “When do we leave?”
The captain looked down at his small confederate and shook his head. “I’m afraid I had to send Bokor in the shuttle already, but you can come with us.”
“You’ll be the first Ferengi member of the Maquis,” added Torres.
Shep thought for a moment, then replied, “No, thank you. I think I’d rather take my chances here. These people aren’t so bad after all. Good luck to you, Captain Chakotay.”
“You, too,” replied the captain.
A moment later, as they settled into the hovercraft, he turned to Torres and said, “So he would rather stay on a plague-ridden planet than join the Maquis. What does that say about us?”
“After what just happened to the Singha, I can’t say I blame him.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to see Klain’s funeral.”
“I’ve got a feeling I’ll see more funerals before this is all over,” she answered glumly.
Tuvok squinted slightly when he stepped from the huge ministry building into the sunshine after being incarcerated in a dim cell for sixteen hours. “What is our status?” he asked Chakotay.
“Not good, I’m afraid.” He told Tuvok about the destruction of the Singha by unknown forces, the escape of Klain’s murderer, and the imminent arrival of a Cardassian fleet.
The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps I should go back to my cell.”
“On the good side,” said Torres, “the captain rescued Lieutenent Riker. Near death, but still alive.”
“What about Ensign Shelzane?”
She shook her head. “Riker says she’s dead.”
“I don’t know whether it will do any good,” said Chakotay, “but I sent the Andorian back to the Federation in Riker’s shuttlecraft. Maybe they’ll come, maybe not.”
“Are we retreating from Helena?”
“No. Our medical teams still have work to do, and we’re not deserting them, or the mission. But we are going into hiding.” Chakotay tapped his combadge. “Seska, three to beam over. Prepare for launch.”
As the Spartacus swooped over a dismal, gray ocean with small ice floes bobbing in the pale water, Chakotay knew why it was called the Silver Sea. When the sun caught it, the ocean might have looked quite beautiful, but under a cloudy sky it looked cold and foreboding.
A bleak, rocky island lay ahead of them, and Chakotay knew without looking at the coordinates that it was Flint Island, also aptly named. “What kind of readings are you getting from that island?” he asked Tuvok, who was seated beside him. The Vulcan studied his instruments and cocked his head. “High kelbonite and silica readings are disrupting our sensors. I presume there must be some vegetation, but I cannot get any readings.”
“Perfect. I’m slowing down to make a pass over the island—we’ll have to use visual to find a place to land.”
Tuvok nodded and sat forward in his seat, ready to use his sharp vision. The Peregrine- class starship swooped over a rugged island that looked surprisingly large when seen from close range. Spindly gray mountains rose above rocky bluffs and cliffs, and there were a few scattered clumps of vegetation clinging to the bare stone. In the center of the island was a lagoon filled with brackish water, and a few stunted trees grew there. Flint Island’s bays and black beaches lacked the sea-gliders and boats they had seen on the rest of Helena.
“There,” said Tuvok, pointing. “Under that ledge.”
Chakotay brought the ship around for another pass over the area Tuvok had indicated. Now he spotted it, too—a great ledge carved by crashing waves in the side of one of the cliffs. Under the ledge was a shiny wet chunk of bedrock. It would be tricky to land there, but he thought he could do it. The advantage would be that the ledge would obscure the Spartacus from prying eyes, should any of their enemies fly over Flint Island.
The captain hit his comm panel, and his voice echoed throughout the small ship. “All hands, brace for landing. It may be a little rough.”
“Allow me, sir?” asked Tuvok.
Chakotay looked at his capable first officer and nodded with relief. “Yes, take the conn.”
Under Tuvok’s sure hands, the landing was not rough at all. He piloted the Spartacus under the ledge and hovered for a second, thrusters blasting away. Then he eased her onto the bedrock like a mother putting her baby down for a nap.
When Tuvok killed the thrusters, Chakotay finally let his breath out. A wave splashed a sheen of water against their front window, and it dribbled down like a veil of tears.
“Now what?” asked the Vulcan.
“Now we wait,” answered the captain. “If we put a communications array on top of the cliff, do you think we could monitor subspace transmissions?”
“I believe so. I will attend to it.” Tuvok rose from his seat and strode off the bridge, leaving Chakotay to ponder the gray sea that lapped at their precarious perch.
They were safe…for the moment.
Eight hours later, Chakotay sat alone on the barren cliff, warming his hands by a small campfire and watching the twin moons of Helena try to shine their way through dense cloud cover. Although the clouds were gloomy, he knew they were keeping the night temperature on Flint Island warmer than it had a right to be. A few meters away, the communications array hummed busily, listening for voices of doom behind the swirling clouds.
The campfire, made from driftwood, was his own small conceit. They had portable heaters that would probably be more efficient, and they could monitor the subspace traffic just as easily from the s
hip. But Chakotay had felt a need to sit and commune with fire, the ground, and the night. Until this mission, he hadn’t realized how much he had missed being on land. He loved space, but he knew he was a visitor there; he felt connected to the land, even this forsaken, haunted island.
Hearing footsteps behind him, he whirled around to see two people approaching. One of them was walking stiffly with a cane, and the other was helping him. When they reached the circle of light from the campfire, he was surprised to see that it was Riker using the cane, and B’Elanna helping him.
“What are you doing up?” he asked Riker, with a mild scold in his voice.
“I couldn’t lie in that bed a moment longer,” said the lieutenant with a smile. “You look like one of your ancestors, sitting up here by the fire. Except that you used a lighter to start it.” Riker pointed at the device.
Chakotay smiled wanly. “I’m sure they would have used more appropriate technology. But however I accomplish the aim, sometimes I need to speak to my ancestors, and this is a good place to find them.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Riker, easing himself to the ground with some difficulty. “I grew up in fairly wild country on Earth, and I miss sitting outside by the campfire.”
“Where are you from?” asked Torres.
“Alaska. It’s beautiful—forests, lakes, rivers, glaciers, lots of wildlife. Most of the year, it’s cold, like this. I miss it.”
“Why don’t you go back?”
The big man shrugged. “There’s not much call for a Starfleet officer in Alaska. Besides, there are some memories I’m not so fond of. But maybe I will go back someday.”
Suddenly, the communications array crackled with activity, and several voices broke in at once, overlapping. Chakotay jumped up from the campfire to adjust the equipment, and a moment later they heard a male voice order, “All ships, assume standard orbit, six thousand kilometer intervals. Cruiser Gagh N’Vort, coordinate scanning activity. Warship K’Stek Nak, coordinate targeting.”
“Targeting?” breathed Torres. “They’re going to destroy the planet! We’ve got to get back to the ship.”
“Wait a minute,” said Riker puzzledly. “Those aren’t Cardassian ship names.”
“Cloak on my command,” the voice continued.
“Cardassians don’t have cloaking,” said Chakotay. “They’re Klingon ships!”
A grin spread across Riker’s face. “I think the Cardassians are in for a surprise.”
Chapter Seventeen
GUL DEMADAK RUBBED his hands together and smiled, thinking how good it would feel to finally be rid of the obstacle known as Helena. Destroying the planet would not only please his superiors and squelch the plague, but it would destroy any trace of his involvement with his secret benefactor. It would also rid the Cardassian Union of a worthless planet that was more trouble to govern than it was worth.
And he would do the deed himself, to achieve the maximum recognition and credit.
“Coming out of warp in thirty seconds,” the captain of the Hakgot reported to him.
“Excellent,” Demadak said with a satisfied smile. He had only been able to scrounge up eight ships on the spur of the moment, but he figured that would be enough to scorch the planet. If they didn’t kill everyone and everything with their weapons, the nuclear winter they caused would destroy everything in a few days. From what he knew of the planet, the inhabitants were peaceful and had no working starships, so they wouldn’t be prepared for an all-out conflagration. They would have no place to hide.
“Coming out of warp,” reported the captain of his flagship.
Gul Demadak rose from his seat and stood before the viewscreen. What an ugly little planet, he thought when it came into view—all blue and watery, like a human’s weak eyes.“Any sign of the Maquis?” he asked.
“None,” answered the officer on ops. “There are no ships in orbit.”
The gul nodded, thinking that the cowardly Maquis had run for it. Or perhaps they had all succumbed to the plague. It was just as well, because his crew needed all of its firepower for the task at hand.
“What about the garrison?” asked the captain.
Demadak frowned, his bony brow knit with concern. “According to their last report, most of them have already died from the plague, and the rest are getting sick. We have no facilities to care for them, and we don’t want to stay here any longer than absolutely necessary.”
The captain nodded. Nobody wanted to risk getting the plague, and the whole purpose of this operation was to make sure that the plague died on Helena.
“I’ll make sure that they are all decorated for bravery,” said Demadak. “Posthumously.”
He looked at another viewscreen and could see the other seven ships in his fleet spread out behind him, ready to execute his commands. “Power up weapons,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
Before they could even fire a shot, his ship was jolted by a powerful blast, and the gul staggered on his feet. “What was that?” he demanded.
“Port nacelle damaged!” reported a frightened ops officer.
“Look!” barked the captain, pointing at the viewscreen. A massive Klingon Bird of Prey had materialized from nowhere—dead ahead of them. Behind them, two more Klingon ships came out of cloak.
“Return fire!” yelled Demadak.
“Belay that order,” said the captain, fixing a jaundiced eye on the gul. “In total, there are thirteen Klingon ships ringing the planet. Gul Demadak, I have to remind you that I’m in command of this ship and her crew. I really don’t care to die over this stupid planet.”
“They’re hailing us,” reported the tactical officer.
“On screen,” muttered Demadak, slumping into a seat. He knew at that moment that his career was over. He would probably be executed.
A rugged, bearded Klingon appeared on the viewscreen. “Cardassian vessels, turn around and leave. I am General Martok, and the planet of Helena is under the protection of the Klingon Empire.”
“You…you have no right to be here!” sputtered Demadak.
“Neither do you,” replied the Klingon.
“This is in direct violation of the treaty!”
“We have no treaty with you,” sneered General Martok. “However, you are clearly breaking your treaty with the Federation. I have been instructed to deliver a message to you from the Federation. They will overlook this serious transgression if you will leave the Demilitarized Zone immediately. In exchange, they will send a fleet of unarmed personnel carriers to evacuate the population of Helena. This will effectively end your concerns over the disease that has infected the planet. I can see no reason why you should refuse this gracious offer.”
“Neither can I,” said the Cardassian captain, stepping in front of Demadak. “General Martok, we will take our leave. End transmission.”
After the screen went blank, the captain turned to the helmsman and ordered, “Take us home. Maximum warp.”
Fuming, Demadak glared at the captain. “I’ll have your head for this!”
“No, you won’t. They knew we were coming. You are responsible for a serious security breach, and I’ll make sure Central Command hears about it.”
Gul Demadak leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.
A week later, Chakotay and his crew were still hiding on Flint Island, monitoring the evacuation of Helena. They were unable to leave because of all the ships in orbit. Although their mission was a success and most of the Helenites had been saved, there was a bittersweet feeling of defeat. It had never been their intention that a civilization hundreds of years old should be uprooted and taken back to a place from which they had fled. Chakotay could only imagine the sorrow of Dr. Gammet, Echo Imjim, and so many others who had to leave their homes, businesses, and unique lifestyles. In a way, they had won the battle but lost the war.
Also, they were troubled by the knowledge that the real masterminds of this biological weapon had gotten away. Where they would strike again
, no one knew; but Chakotay was certain that they would strike again.
Night after night, members of the crew sat on the cliff by the campfire, listening to radio traffic from the personnel carriers. At least, thought Chakotay, there was no more talk about B’Elanna or anyone else retiring from the Maquis and living happily ever after on Helena. When the last ship left, Helena would again be the exclusive property of the birds, fish, and animals. Cardassians would be free to settle there, but he doubted they ever would.
He watched Thomas Riker, who seemed to be the most troubled of all of them. The Maquis were used to the Federation messing things up, but the lieutenant had never gotten such a vivid demonstration of its heavy-handed interference before. It had come as something of a shock.
All of the Starfleet doctors had left with the others, but not Riker. He refused to leave the Spartacus. One night, Chakotay found himself alone on the cliff with the lieutenant. He hadn’t broached the subject yet, but it was time.
“Riker,” he said, “the evacuation is almost complete. If you’re going back to Starfleet, you’ve got to go now. We’ll beam you over to one of the other islands.”
The lieutenant gritted his teeth. “I can’t stand what they’re doing here. All of it is just to make life easier for them. They don’t give a damn what happens to the Helenites.”
“Why do you think we formed the Maquis? The Federation’s appeasement of the Cardassians has destroyed more lives than you can ever imagine. What’s a few million Helenites down the drain, as long as it keeps the treaty intact. If you’re not going back to Starfleet, are you going to stay with us? Are you ready to join the Maquis?”
The big man nodded slowly. “I can’t believe it, but I think I am. What am I going to do in the Maquis?”
“You can do a lot for us, since you can impersonate that other Riker. There’s a mission we’ve talked about, but we’ve never had the right person until now.”
“What is it?”
He looked around, just to make sure they were alone. “I think I can trust everybody in my crew, but I’m not entirely sure. So I want you to keep this between you and me.”
