[Star Trek TNG] - Double Helix Omnibus

by Peter David

  At the midafternoon recess, the captain and Ben Zoma departed the podium. Their intention was to use the allotted seventeen cycles—approximately a half-hour of Earth time—to stretch their legs. Debennius II was a lovely planet, after all. Picard believed a brief walk beneath a soft blue sky might clear their minds a bit.

  It was not to be, however. No sooner had Picard descended to the chamber’s central walkway than the large Thallonian he had observed earlier appeared suddenly at his side.

  “Captain,” said the Thallonian in a smooth, cultured voice.

  The human turned to him. “Yes?”

  “Permit me to introduce myself,” the delegate told him. “I am Governor Gerrid Thul, here at the congress representing the interests of the Thallonian Empire.” Thul extended a large ruddy hand, demonstrating that he was familiar with human customs.

  Picard shook the Thallonian’s hand. His grip was strong and firm, a rarity among aliens who attempted the handshake ritual.

  “Jean-Luc Picard,” said the captain, though by now he was certain everyone knew precisely who he was. He indicated his companion. “And this is Gilaad Ben Zoma, my first officer.”

  Thul shook Ben Zoma’s hand as well.

  “We have seventeen cycles before the war of words begins again,” Thul told Picard. “Might I have a moment with you?” His eyes flickered to the first officer, then back to the captain. “In private?” he added.

  Picard turned to Ben Zoma.

  “Go ahead,” said the dark-haired man. “I should call up to the Stargazer anyway. I need to check on some things.”

  The captain nodded, aware of at least some of the matters Ben Zoma would be checking on—all mundane but necessary aspects of ship’s business. Then he turned to the Thallonian. “Very well. Shall we speak outside? Or do you have somewhere else in mind?”

  “Outside will be fine,” Thul told him.

  Together, they made their way through the doors of the Grand Council Chamber and walked out into a beautiful, sunny day. Picard had to blink as his eyes adjusted to the brighter light.

  In front of them, white stone steps led down to a circular pool with a fountain. The Thallonian approached it and peered into the sparkling depths. As the captain followed suit, he caught a glint of color—some kind of marine life, he realized.

  A small bowl filled with some gray-green, crumbly matter stood on a nearby pedestal. Thul reached a big, red hand into it and began to sprinkle the surface of the water with the gray-green stuff. At once, the fish—if they could be called that, for they resembled no fish Picard had ever seen—darted to the surface and snatched at it.

  The captain laughed as he realized what the stuff on the pedestal was. “Fish food,” he said.

  The Thallonian glanced at him and smiled. “Indeed,” he said. He finished feeding the aquatic creatures, meticulously dusted off his hands, and turned to face Picard again.

  “You asked to speak with me,” the captain noted, acutely aware of how little time they had before the session resumed.

  “I did,” Thul agreed. He held his hands out, palms up. “Let me be blunt. How much do you know about our problems in this sector?”

  Picard replied with equal bluntness. “Very little, I’m afraid. Only what’s generally known to all those assembled. But I assure you, I intend to learn a good deal more.”

  The governor clasped his hands behind his back and stared into the depths of the fish pool. “Truly,” he said, “it is a shameful spectacle. Supposedly, it is over territory. But of course, it has become a great deal more than that in recent weeks.”

  “You’ve been here that long?” asked the captain.

  Thul nodded. “Too long, as you can imagine. I would much rather be back at my outpost, doing some real work. I need not tell you that attending these sessions has taken its toll on me.” He glanced at Picard. “But then, I’m sure there is somewhere else you would rather be as well.”

  The captain grunted, thinking of the ruins on Zebros IV. “The same could probably be said of everyone in the congress…except perhaps the Cordracites and the Melacron themselves.”

  “Except them,” the Thallonian agreed. “And they are closer than ever to an armed conflict—one which would take place precariously close to my emperor’s borders. As you can imagine, the revered Tae Cwan does not wish to see such a conflict. That’s why I’m here, a loyal servant of my master—to see to it that a war never takes place.”

  Picard was glad to hear that at least one delegate was approaching the matter with a cool head. He said so.

  “One delegate, by himself, can do very little,” Thul pointed out. He eyed the captain. “However, judging by what I heard from you this morning, it sounds as if your Federation and my Empire seek the same sort of outcome to these talks.”

  “It does at that,” Picard agreed. By then, he could see where the Thallonian was going with his comments. “You’re suggesting that we join forces, I take it?”

  “I am,” Thul confirmed, his dark eyes blazing resolutely. “Let us work in concert, Captain. Then perhaps we can put an end to this war of words before it becomes a war in truth.”

  “We could pool our knowledge,” Picard said.

  “And back each other up during the talks,” said the governor. He smiled. “Certainly, we have nothing to lose.”

  The captain hesitated a moment before replying. He didn’t know very much about the Thallonians. Hardly anyone in the Federation did.

  However, Thul seemed genuine in his desire to end the enmity between the Melacron and the Cordracites. Nor had it escaped Picard’s notice that the governor was one of the very few delegates not crying out for blood in the Grand Council Chamber.

  The one thing the captain knew for certain was that the Thallonian Empire was a powerful entity. Perhaps if he and Thul worked together here and now, their unity would not only improve the present situation but influence future negotiations with the governor’s people.

  “You make a compelling case,” said Picard. He smiled as well. “From now on, we’ll work together as closely as possible.”

  Thul clapped him on the shoulder. “I am pleased,” he told the captain. “I am pleased indeed.”

  Crusher leaned back in his seat and surveyed the faces of the others who had joined him in the lounge.

  Phigus Simenon, the ship’s lizardlike chief engineer. Pug Joseph, the baby-faced head of security, who was straddling a chair in front of the room’s computer workstation. Carter Greyhorse, the big, broadshouldered Native American who served as chief medical officer. Vigo, the strapping blue Pandrilite in charge of the Stargazer’s weapons systems.

  And, of course, Ensign Tuvok, who was standing off to the side with his arms folded across his chest.

  “Well, Ensign Tuvok,” said Simenon, eyeing the Vulcan with slitted, blood-red eyes as he switched his scaly tail from one side to the other, “you’re the expert on the Kellasian sector. Why don’t you tell us who this mysterious third party is already, so we can all go have a nice snack and put our feet up?”

  Caught off balance, the ensign looked quizzically at the Gnalish. “I beg your pardon?” he said.

  The engineer stopped and returned Tuvok’s scrutiny. “We backtracked all the way to Starbase Three to pick you up, didn’t we? I thought that you might know something.”

  Tuvok frowned ever so slightly. “I know quite a bit. However, it will require considerable investigation to determine if there is a third party—and if so, to uncover his identity.”

  “Investigation,” Simenon hissed, his eyes gleaming with humor. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Pay no attention to him,” Greyhorse told the Vulcan.

  “The doctor’s right,” said Joseph. He had turned around to face his workstation and was tapping away. “Our friend Simenon doesn’t always work and play well with others.”

  “Doesn’t ever,” Greyhorse amended.

  Crusher knew that the Gnalish could be irascible in the extreme. The human h
ad long since given up trying to beat him in a game of one-upmanship, since he never seemed to get anywhere.

  Simenon smiled to himself. “My apologies, Mr. Tuvok. I didn’t know your feelings were hurt so easily.”

  The ensign’s brow creased. “I do not have feelings,” he shot back. “I am a Vulcan. And if it is your intention to bait me, I would advise you to spend your time in more gainful pursuits…for instance, adjusting the magnetic switching controls in the plasma distribution manifold.”

  The Gnalish’s head snapped around. “What are you talking about? There’s nothing wrong with the magnetic switching controls.”

  The Vulcan lifted an eyebrow. “That is correct. It was merely…an example,” he said archly.

  It took Simenon a moment to realize that the tables had been turned on him, but when he did he hissed with delight. After all, he liked nothing better than when someone matched him blow for blow.

  “Thataway,” he told Tuvok with a surprisingly paternal tone in his voice. “Don’t take guff from anyone—even me.”

  Crusher nodded approvingly. It seemed Tuvok was going to be able to hold his own on the Stargazer—even against the likes of the Gnalish.

  “Now,” he said, as the ranking officer in the room, “let’s put the sharp part of our wits to the problem instead of each other.”

  “Here’s a start,” Joseph told them. He swiveled around in his chair again. “I’ve taken the liberty of pulling up all pertinent information on terrorist incidents in the sector.”

  “You mean the latest wave?” asked Greyhorse, his expression a characteristically grim one.

  “No,” said the security chief. “All of them, including the ones attributed to the established terrorist groups.”

  “The Quack-Socks and the Melly-Craw,” snorted Simenon.

  The Vulcan opened his mouth to correct the Gnalish’s deliberate mispronunciations, but Crusher caught his eye and shook his head. Realizing he was being baited again, Tuvok remained silent.

  “Gather ’round,” Joseph advised his colleagues. “Don’t be shy.”

  They all complied. Even Simenon.

  “Now, as I understand it,” the security chief went on with his colleagues looking over his shoulders, “the First Minister has two reasons for suspecting the intervention of a third party. One is a change in the methods used by the terrorists. The other is a change in the equipment they used…in other words, the weapons.”

  Crusher nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Okay,” said Joseph, tapping his monitor screen with a forefinger. “This is a catalogue of the terrorist incidents that took place between a year and six months ago.”

  One by one, scenes of carnage filled the screen, lingered for a moment, then faded…only to be replaced by others. Crusher shook his head as he looked at a bombed-out building in one scene, the desecration of a graveyard in another, the remnants of some ancient statuary in a third.

  What a heartbreaking mess, he reflected. He couldn’t understand how people could be so bent on destruction.

  “All right,” Joseph told them. “Now let’s take a look at the incidents that took place in the last couple of weeks.”

  Again, scenes of carnage filled the screen. As Crusher watched, a series of dead Cordracites were pulled from a ragged hole in the ground. A moment later, a bound Melacron was executed with a directed-energy weapon. More Cordracite corpses, scattered across a playground. More Melacron corpses, floating on an expanse of blue-green water.

  “I would say these are of a distinctly more bloody nature,” Greyhorse noted with an air of disapproval.

  Simenon slid a ruby-red eye in his direction. “Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?”

  Greyhorse frowned at the Gnalish. “If you like.”

  “So,” said Crusher, “so far, Culunnh seems to have a point. The terrorists’ methods have changed.”

  “What about their weapons?” Vigo asked.

  “Coming right up,” said Joseph.

  With that, he pulled up a set of objects depicted against a white background. They included hand weapons, blades of various shapes and sizes, and a couple of undetonated bombs.

  “Each of these was used in a terrorist incident between a year and six months ago,” the security chief remarked.

  “They’re all rather standard,” Vigo observed.

  “Nothing from outside the sector?” asked the Gnalish.

  “I’d be surprised if it were,” said the weapons officer.

  Tuvok pointed to one object in particular—a long, scimitarlike affair. “What is this?” he inquired.

  “Have you seen it before?” Greyhorse asked him.

  The Vulcan shrugged. “I am not certain.”

  Joseph magnified the weapon and the legend beneath it. “It’s the ritual slaughter blade of the Me’laa’kra,” he explained. “All the sacred burden beasts in the incident on Cordra Four were killed with it.”

  “Twenty-two in all,” said Simenon, reading off the screen. There was no hint of sarcasm in his voice anymore. “Absolutely sickening.”

  “Twenty two?” Tuvok asked. “Are you certain?”

  Joseph looked at the ensign. “Positive. Why?”

  “Twenty-two is a lucky number in the view of the ancient Cordracites,” Tuvok informed him without emotion. “It is associated with the acquisition of wealth and power.”

  The security chief looked impressed with the observation. “Interesting, Ensign. But why murder burden beasts?”

  Tuvok considered the question for a moment. Then again, he spoke dispassionately. “In primitive times, the Cordracites used these animals to sow their fields. In some regions, they were elevated to the status of harvest gods—deities who presided over the cultivation of land.”

  Crusher nodded. “So these animal slaughters might have been symbolic—a ritual objection to the Cordracite drive for territory.”

  “A drive matched meter for meter by our friends the Melacron,” Joseph pointed out with a frown.

  “Which, in a naaga shell,” said the Gnalish, “is why they’re at each other’s throats all the time.”

  “More significantly,” the Vulcan went on, “it seems the Me’laa’kra see their activities as a holy crusade, striking at the mystical symbols of the Cordracite belief system—and not at the Cordracites themselves.”

  “Indeed,” said Simenon.

  “But as we’ve already seen,” Crusher noted, “recent incidents have clearly been designed to generate Cordracite fatalities.”

  “Which lends a bit more support to the third party theory,” the chief medical officer told them.

  “At least among the Me’laa’kra,” said the Vulcan. “Perhaps we could examine a Qua-Sok weapon.”

  The security chief reduced the ritual slaughter blade to its previous size and gave them a view of the entire collection. Tuvok studied it again, but nothing seemed to pop out at him.

  “Pick something anyway,” Greyhorse encouraged him. “We had good luck with your last choice.”

  Vigo planted a big, blue forefinger on the screen. “Here,” he said. “I’ll do it for him.”

  As before, Joseph magnified the object—a small, black undetonated bomb. He glanced at the Vulcan. “Anything?”

  Tuvok shook his head. “No. Perhaps if we were to see the aftermath of the incident, however…”

  “Your wish is my command,” the security chief told him. As Crusher watched, he tapped out the requisite command on his keyboard.

  A tableau came up showing a half-destroyed power relay station on Melacron VI. The ensign extended a dark index finger and pointed to a scrawled message on a broken wall.

  “Would you please magnify this?” Tuvok requested.

  Joseph did as he was asked. Abruptly, the message became large enough to take up most of the screen.

  “What does it say?” asked Crusher, who had no idea.

  “I do not pretend to be an expert in Cordracite languages,” said the Vulcan, “but I believe i
t credits the destruction of the relay station to the ‘fierce and terrible Qua-Sok,’ who only acted in ‘the most upright and justified’ fashion. Or something to that effect.”

  “Worried about their image, are they?” asked Simenon.

  “Culunnh said they were,” Crusher pointed out.

  “What’s more,” Tuvok added, “they claimed responsibility for the incident. We should determine if anyone claimed responsibility for any of the more recent crimes against the Melacron.”

  Vigo nodded. “Good idea.”

  They went over each of the incidents—three of them in all. There was no sign of any scrawled messages at any of the sites. In fact, the perpetrators seemed to have gone out of their way to avoid leaving traces of their having been there.

  “Another significant difference,” Simenon noted.

  Finally, Joseph tried to call up a visual inventory of the weapons used in the previous two weeks. But after a moment, he sighed and sat back in his chair, an expression of bemusement on his pugnosed face.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Greyhorse.

  “They don’t have any pictures of the weapons employed recently,” said the security officer. “Whoever used them took them along with them.”

  “Sounds like the work of professionals,” Vigo observed.

  “But the Melacron must have speculated as to what was used,” Crusher suggested.

  Calling up the data, Joseph nodded. “They did. Unfortunately, they weren’t able to get very specific. They weren’t familiar with the energy signatures they found.”

  The Pandrilite weapons officer grunted. “Even more like the work of professionals,” he maintained.

  “Well,” said Simenon, “the evidence—or lack of it, in this case—seems pretty clear. The First Minister is right. There is a third party involved in these attacks.”

  “Trying to pick up where the Qua-Sok and the Me’laa’kra left off,” the security chief expanded.

  “That would be my guess as well,” said Tuvok.

  Crusher recalled that the Vulcan had disagreed with Culunnh’s conclusions down on Debennius VI. However, he now seemed quite willing to agree with them. I guess that’s one of the benefits of being without emotions, the commander mused. You never get too attached to a particular point of view.