[Star Trek TNG] - Double Helix Omnibus

by Peter David

  Picard hoped that Crusher and Tuvok would find what they were looking for—and quickly. Otherwise, the Congress was in danger of deteriorating into a name-calling competition.

  “Innocents!” another Cordracite voice grated. “Workers on an afternoon shuttle, going home to mates and offspring—”

  Another voice trilled to meet it and clash with it. “And our G’aha was not innocent?” asked a Melacron. “He had no Companion? No children?”

  “Order!” Cabrid Culunnh demanded.

  But the accusations didn’t stop. In fact, other voices rose up to support the first bunch.

  Picard’s jaw clenched. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of someone standing amid the chaos. It was Gerrid Thul, the Thallonian. And he was glaring at the captain, obviously as unhappy about this turn of events as Picard was.

  “What is it?” asked Ben Zoma from the seat beside him.

  The captain frowned. “It’s time to see whether our alliance with Governor Thul is going to get us anywhere.”

  “Order!” the First Minister called out—again, to no avail.

  Making sure the Thallonian was still paying attention to him, Picard jerked his head in the direction of Cabrid Culunnh. Thul’s eyes narrowed. Then, as understanding seemed to set in, he nodded.

  A moment later, the captain of the Stargazer left his seat and positioned himself beside the First Minister. At the same time, Thul advanced to the podium and ascended to the higher level, then placed himself on the Benniari’s other side.

  “Order!” Picard called out, speaking as one used to having his commands obeyed. “We will have order in this room!”

  Something in his tone of voice pierced the chaos. The cries of outrage subsided. And before the turmoil could begin again, the Thallonian added his voice to the captain’s.

  “We have no proof that the Melacron were responsible for the bombing,” he thundered, “any more than we have proof that it was a Cordracite who assassinated the G’aha!”

  Like Picard, he had a way of getting people’s attention. The captain gave Thul room to maneuver.

  “We don’t even know yet what kind of bomb it was!” he went on. “Are we nothing but frightened children, to leap to such conclusions? Or are we the bearers of wisdom our people trusted we would be when they dispatched us to this momentous congress?”

  Picard suppressed a smile. He couldn’t have put it better himself. In the wake of the Thallonian’s remarks, Culunnh stepped forward. There was dignity in every line of his small body.

  “This is our sector,” the First Minister said quietly, but in a voice that carried throughout the chamber. “These are our planets. Our people. And yet, see who must remind us of our mission here—a Federation starship captain and a Thallonian governor. I, for one, am ashamed.”

  The assemblage had the grace to look embarrassed by Culunnh’s words—embarrassed and repentant. For the first time that day, they gave the Benniari their undivided attention.

  “See what fear and hatred have done to us,” he said, “that only outsiders can see our problems clearly.” He lifted his head. “Rest assured, reports will come in throughout the day. We will be able, I hope, to trace the origin of the bomb, and perhaps that will give us the answers we seek. In the meantime, let us conduct this congress like the civilized beings we are!”

  Picard glanced at Thul. The governor nodded, obviously as relieved as the captain was that the congress had settled down.

  Culunnh turned to the two of them. “Gentlemen, I thank you for your intervention. Please take your seats again. I trust I can call upon both of you to speak later in the session.”

  Picard nodded. “Of course.”

  “It would be my great pleasure,” said Thul.

  As the Thallonian left the podium for the time being, Picard returned to his seat as well. He saw that his first officer was impressed.

  “Quite a performance,” Ben Zoma whispered.

  “For the governor too,” the captain noted.

  His first officer quirked a smile. “Actually, sir, it was the governor I was talking about.”

  Picard chuckled a little. Then he leaned back in his chair and watched the First Minister try to move the meeting forward. Even with order restored, it wasn’t an easy task.

  Find something, Jack, the captain urged silently. Find something before we run out of tricks.

  Sitting cross-legged at the navigational controls of his new space vessel, Jack Crusher wished the Benniari were just a little bigger and a little more humanoid-shaped.

  Not that he was complaining. It had been generous of the First Minister to lend them a ship in which to travel to Debennius VI. It would be a whole lot less noticeable than one of the Stargazer’s shuttles, and would therefore raise fewer questions.

  However, because the Benniari were small and…well, differently shaped than either humans or Vulcans…some emergency retrofitting had been necessary. Actually, quite a bit of emergency retrofitting. For instance, while the Benniar ship—a compact vehicle by any standard—granted them enough room to stand up, the seats had needed to be completely removed for Tuvok and Crusher to access the controls.

  The second officer had to laugh. “I feel a little silly,” he confessed to the Vulcan.

  Tuvok didn’t even favor him with a glance. “We were able to make this ship serve our needs. There is nothing silly about that.”

  It seemed to Crusher that his companion spoke with a touch more severity than was required—a little extra dollop of dignity, as if he too were somewhat unsettled by the position he was forced to assume.

  Methinks the Vulcan doth protest too much, the commander reflected. But in the end, of course, Tuvok was right. They had been able to make the ship work for them, and that was all that really mattered.

  “We are now entering orbit around Debennius Six,” said the ensign.

  “The Last Stop to Nowhere,” mused Crusher.

  Tuvok frowned as he worked at his controls. “That is the sobriquet by which it is known, yes.”

  “And this is where we’ll find Bin Nedrach,” said the commander.

  “That is indeed our hope,” the Vulcan rejoined.

  Fortunately for them, Nedrach hadn’t bothered to cover his departure from Melacron V. With no criminal record to set him apart from the other passengers, he apparently hadn’t believed it necessary to obtain a pseudonym or a set of falsified documents.

  But then, Nedrach hadn’t taken the estimable Ensign Tuvok into account. It helps to have someone with a ridiculously long memory on your side, Crusher told himself.

  Because of the nature of this planet’s “society”—or lack thereof—there was no one to contact for permission to land. The commander was reminded of Earth’s late nineteenth century, the “wild, lawless West,” where a gun was all a man needed to get where he wanted to go.

  The ease with which they found a place to land and hide their small craft, all within a few kilometers of a main city, was actually rather unsettling.

  “Any disreputable type can sneak onto this planet,” Crusher said.

  “But then,” Tuvok told him as they concealed their ship with loose foliage, “so can a team of Starfleet officers.”

  The commander looked at him. “In other words, I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  The Vulcan appeared perplexed—and maybe a little annoyed as well. “The reference escapes me,” he said.

  “What it means,” Crusher explained, “is that you shouldn’t question good luck. You should just run with it.”

  Tuvok sighed a little. “I see.”

  “Don’t you have any colorful Vulcan expressions?” asked the human.

  The ensign glanced at him. “No,” he said flatly. And he dragged a few last branches full of leaves up against their vessel.

  Crusher brushed off his hands. “Looks like we’re done.”

  “Indeed,” said Tuvok. He gestured. “The city is that way.” And he began to walk toward it.
/>   The human had no trouble catching up with him. “Impatient, aren’t we?” he asked his companion.

  Tuvok stopped and turned to him, obviously a little surprised. “Not really. I simply saw no reason to delay.”

  Crusher smiled at the ensign’s expression. “My fault. You’re absolutely right—there isn’t.” And as he started walking again, he reminded himself that he couldn’t joke with the Vulcan as he might Joseph or Simenon—not even about the clothes they had to wear.

  Gone were the tailored, maroon tunics that marked them as members of Starfleet. Also gone were the ribbed, white turtleneck pullovers they were used to wearing underneath.

  Crusher was now clad in a multicolored vest and black trousers—both of them made of high-quality material and pleasant to the touch, marking him as a man of means. And the style, he had been assured, was the most up-to-date for the system.

  Unfortunately, the boots were new and pinched him a little, and the voluminous red shirt he wore beneath the vest made him feel a bit like a pirate from Earth’s turbulent fifteenth century. But on the bright side, the full sleeves of his shirt actually turned out to be a bonus; Crusher found they were handy for concealing pouches bulging with latinum, not to mention a small, handheld phaser.

  Tuvok was clad in a tight-fitting jumpsuit of black and gray. His belt bristled with weapons, none of them Starfleet issue—but unlike Crusher, he made no attempt to hide them. The unforgiving cut of the garb accentuated his lean, powerful muscles, pointed ears, and dark skin.

  People would talk to Crusher—but they would be wary of his grim-looking companion. At least, that was the plan.

  “Fascinating,” said Tuvok as they came in sight of a low, dark building that seemed on the verge of falling apart.

  “Fascinating?” the human echoed. For the life of him, he couldn’t see what the ensign found intriguing about the place.

  “Yes,” said Tuvok. “Last time I visited this sector, this was a gaming establishment called The Den.”

  Crusher grunted. “Lovely.”

  The Vulcan spared him a glance. “At the time, Commander, it was a well-known meeting place for the members of the crime clan to which Bin Nedrach’s grandfather belonged.” He eyed the ramshackle structure again. “Although the Melacronai species is short-lived in comparison to my own, this edifice has changed little in more than fifty years.”

  “It always seemed to be on the verge of collapse?” Crusher wondered.

  “Indeed,” came the reply. “I must confess, I marvel that it has not completed the process.”

  “That makes two of us,” said the commander. “Well, come on, Sulak. It looks like we’ve found our first stop.”

  Tuvok frowned at the use of his pseudonym. “Of course…Marcus.”

  As they approached The Den, Crusher took a deep breath. Relax, he thought. If there’s trouble, you’ll be able to handle it. That was what the phaser was for, though he wouldn’t use it if he didn’t have to.

  Assuming an air of boldness, even arrogance, the commander pushed open the door. It was dark and musty inside The Den, and he had to pause for a moment to let his eyes become adjusted to the light. Then he went in. Naturally, his companion followed him.

  Noise that was undoubtedly meant to be music assaulted Crusher’s ears. Smoke from various burning substances attacked his nose, his eyes, and his mouth. But instead of giving into an urge to choke on it, he forced himself to inhale deeply and fashion a grin.

  The commander was glad of Tuvok’s solid presence behind him as he made his way through the room. The place was a lot bigger than it had looked from the outside, he reflected.

  “Dabo!” came a cry from some corner, followed by a chorus of groans and cheers. “All right, everyone,” said the same voice, “double down, double down, let’s get this game going!”

  In another corner, a handful of Orion traders were playing a heated game of dom-jot, which was similar to Terran billiards. The Orions looked up at Crusher and the Vulcan as they passed by, their sparkling green eyes wary in their green-skinned faces.

  Casting about for someone to speak with, the commander spied a gangly, beetle-browed humanoid standing behind a bar, busy pouring drinks for patrons and wiping away spills. The fact that he had four long arms made his task a bit easier.

  There didn’t seem to be anyone else in charge, so Crusher made his way through the crowd and slipped into a wobbly chair at the bar. He gave the bartender a dazzling smile.

  “What’ll it be?” asked the four-armed specimen, training a dark, protuberant pair of eyes on the human and Tuvok.

  “Information,” Crusher said. “I’m looking for a Melacron named Bin Nedrach. Seen him around lately?”

  The dark eyes narrowed to slits and the alien paused for a moment, indicating to Crusher that he wasn’t all that quick on the uptake. “Who wants to know?” the bartender rumbled warily.

  “Someone who wishes to offer him employment,” the Vulcan replied.

  His clipped tone made the commander wince a little. “Lucrative employment,” Crusher added quickly.

  The bartender stared at Tuvok for a moment, his brow creased down the middle. Then he began to wheeze alarmingly. It took the commander a few seconds to realize that the alien was laughing.

  “You want to employ Nedrach, do you?” he asked, exaggerating the words in a mocking tone of voice. “Well,” and his voice dropped to an unfriendly growl, “you won’t find Nedrach around here. Go find someone else.”

  Crusher didn’t like the way the conversation was going. He had to do something about it, he told himself, or he and his Vulcan partner would soon find themselves stymied in their investigation.

  Before the bartender could turn away from them, the commander reached up with a casual bravado he didn’t feel and seized the grimy material of the alien’s tunic front. Then he hauled the bartender’s face down to within an inch of his own.

  Silence fell all around him. By that, Crusher knew everyone present was taking in the scene. It was fine with him. In fact, it was exactly what he had been hoping for.

  “I don’t think you understand,” Crusher growled, smiling a wolfish grin. “My friend Sulak here said we wanted Nedrach. We don’t want anyone else.” The human tugged harder on the bartender’s shirtfront. “Only Nedrach will do. Maybe you understand that now?”

  The alien was big enough and muscular enough to pound the commander to a bloody pulp. However, as Crusher had gambled, he was also too slow-witted to be sure of his chances in a fight.

  Crusher held the bartender’s gaze for just long enough before releasing him with an air of disdain. Then, flicking his wrist, he let a few pieces of latinum slip from his sleeve onto the wooden bar.

  Staring into the alien’s dark, angry popeyes, the commander repeated, “Do you understand now?”

  The bartender’s thick, hairy brow lowered at the sight of all that latinum gleaming on his bar. This much, at least, he clearly understood. He reached out a thick-fingered hand for the latinum, the slender slips of yellow-white metal looking tiny in his big mitt.

  But before he could close his fingers about the latinum, Crusher deftly plucked them from his palm.

  “Hey!” the bartender exclaimed indignantly.

  “I don’t give something for nothing, friend,” the human told him.

  For a moment, the alien looked as if he was about to vault over the bar and do some pulping after all. But Crusher stood his ground as if he weren’t the least bit concerned about that possibility.

  At last, the bartender jerked his massive head. “Back here,” he said, lowering his voice so only the human and the Vulcan could hear him. “Too many eyes and ears out here, you know what I mean?”

  Crusher knew what he meant, all right. It seemed that everyone in the Den was watching as they followed the alien’s hulking figure to a tiny, smelly back room. The barkeeper opened the door, closed it behind the three of them, then glanced around carefully before speaking.

  “Like I s
aid,” he grumbled at last, “Bin Nedrach doesn’t come around this place anymore.”

  “Do you know where he does go?” the commander inquired.

  The alien shook his head from side to side. “No idea.”

  Crusher glanced at Tuvok. The Vulcan shrugged. Turning back to the bartender, the commander said, “In that case, I fail to see the purpose of this conversation—which means no more latinum.”

  Again, a reference to the precious metal seemed to work wonders with the alien’s powers of concentration. “Wait!” he howled, holding up all four of his long-fingered hands. “I don’t know where Nedrach is, but I can tell you who would know.”

  “And who’s that?” asked Crusher.

  “His rider,” came the reply. “And him I know how to find.”

  The commander wasn’t familiar with the term “rider,” but it wasn’t difficult to guess what it might mean. A steed or a mount, a beast of burden who did the work, needed someone to tell him where to go and what to do.

  “And where can we find Nedrach’s rider?” Crusher asked.

  Languidly, keeping his eyes on the bartender’s face, he again shook out the three slips of latinum—this time, into his palm. He ran his thumb over the shiny metal and waited for the alien to speak.

  “There is a klaapish-klaapish’na house not far from here,” said the bartender, his dark popeyes glued to the latinum. “The name of the place is The House of Comfort.”

  Jack kept his expression as neutral as possible. He wasn’t sure what a klaapish-klaapish’na house was, but with the name The House of Comfort, he could make a pretty good guess.

  Already, he was formulating his next message to Beverly: Hi, honey. Hope you and Wes are well. My most recent assignment took me undercover to an alien brothel. Hope you understand the sacrifices an officer has to make in the line of duty….

  “You’ll want to find a Melacron named Pudris Barrh,” said the bartender. “You tell him you know he’s Nedrach’s rider and he’ll have to be the one to tell you yes or no.”

  Crusher nodded. He had gotten what he came for. With a flourish, he dropped two slips of the latinum into the alien’s outstretched hand.