Suddenly a mass of debris fell upon their poor commentator, and the screen went blank. “Bringing up another one,” said Ensign Coltak without comment.
Now they saw a Ferengi on the bridge of his vessel, gripping the captain’s chair as his ship was rocked back and forth by some mysterious force. His eyes were wide with fear as he stared down at them from the viewscreen. “Mayday! Mayday! Captain Baldoru on the freighter Rich Prize, and we’re under attack!”
One of his crew members shouted something to him, and the Ferengi seemed to reconsider, despite the obvious pounding his craft was taking. “We’re not under attack, but ... we don’t know [94] what it is. Temperatures falling, gravity fluctuating—it’s some kind of natural disaster! We’ve got to try to lift off the planet.” He waved frantically at his subordinates. “Eject cargo!”
There was a flurry of activity and barked orders as the frightened Ferengi crew tried to get their launch together. Picard felt his hands balling into fists as he watched the dramatic effort, because he had a bad feeling it was not going to turn out well.
“Full thrusters! Manual launch at one-quarter impulse.” The Ferengi captain looked with hope and confidence at his helmsman, who intently worked his board. Interference streaked the image on the viewscreen, and the freighter shuddered mightily as it tried to lift off. Picard imagined that they were on a giant outdoor landing pad, thrusters lifting them upward like a big helicopter.
“Stabilizers weakening!” yelled the ops officer.
“Divert emergency power to shields,” ordered the captain.
Picard drew a sharp intake of breath, thinking that he would divert all power to thrusters. They were either going to get off the ground or they weren’t—worry about damage later. “Altitude,” he said softly, rooting for them.
“We’re hitting solar winds!” called a voice a second before the image on the viewscreen disappeared in a slash of static. Just before the scene faded to complete darkness, they heard the screams of the Ferengi crew, forming a dissonant chorus of death.
Silence commanded the bridge of the Enterprise for several seconds until Ensign Coltak softly asked, “Do you want to see more, Captain?”
Picard shook his head grimly. “Not at the moment. Even though someone went to Hakon to warn them, the message never got through.”
“These records are consistent with the expected results of a failing sun,” said Data. “Which should not have happened in this solar system for another three billion years.”
“What could transform a star like that?” asked Geordi, peering at [95] his readouts. “It’s still there—it hasn’t been blasted apart—but it’s a lot different. A yellow giant turned into a red dwarf.”
Data cocked his head curiously. “Long-range sensors show another planet in that system which does not match the description we have for it. SY-911 Alpha, closest planet to the sun, is supposed to be Class-H, but now it is Class-L, bordering on -M. It has an oxidizing atmosphere that it never had before.”
“Are you sure about that?” asked Picard doubtfully. “Could it be an error in the readings?”
“Possibly,” admitted the android, “but the data from the sun appear to be consistent with what we have seen on Hakon. I agree, these readings are so unusual as to be questionable.”
“Forward all of this data to Admiral Nechayev,” ordered Picard. “Maybe she can make something out of it.”
“Let’s do a long-range scan of Seran,” said La Forge, grimly plying his console. “We’ll see if we get more weird readings.”
Weird readings or not, thought Picard, there were beings out there dying by the millions, perhaps the billions. Not just highly intelligent beings but animals, birds, fish, microbes—ecosystems vanishing in the blink of an eye. It would be nice to pin it all on interference and erroneous sensor readings, but in his mind he could still hear that Ferengi crew screaming.
nine
From the cockpit of her shuttlecraft, Leah Brahms looked around at her motley crew, consisting of a Tellarite who would not stop crying, a Capellan who was suddenly missing a leg without any explanation, and a grizzled Klingon who hummed happily to himself as he gazed out a side viewport. Maltz seemed more clean-cut, too, and a few years younger, although his regal clothes were a wreck.
She had let everybody just find a seat and get comfortable while she plotted the course of the deadly wave. Straight into the Federation, just like us. Only it’s expanding and going faster, and we’re not. Without explaining it to anyone, Leah put the shuttlecraft into warp drive.
“How fast is her top speed?” asked Maltz, recognizing the change.
“Warp two, although I can get it close to three if I override our safeties.” Leah wasn’t eager for any conversation when her own thoughts were so heavy, but she recognized the need to communicate with this pathetic lot of survivors. “Paldor, will you do some first-aid on Consul Bekra? He’s being stoic, but I think he’s in pain.”
The Tellarite sniffed and let out a sob that got caught several [97] times in his throat. “Can you believe it? All of them dead. And us helpless! Oh, what was I thinking?” He began to blubber anew.
“We’re all suffering,” said Leah through clenched teeth, “but we’ve got a job to do—”
“What?” shrieked the Tellarite. “Flying somewhere else where they won’t believe us ... or move quickly enough? So we can watch this happen all over again!”
Behind them, Maltz muttered, “We’ve got to find out who set it off.”
“What does he mean?” asked Paldor in confusion. “Who set what off?”
His turban askew, Bekra shifted in his seat and let out a groan. “Maltz has a theory that this is some sort of weapon. He has talked about a similar thing in the past.” The Capellan grimaced. “I could use some of that first-aid, by the way.”
When Paldor didn’t move, Leah sighed wearily. “Maltz, can you pilot this shuttlecraft?”
“Aye, Captain.” answered the Klingon, rising to his feet. “They’re all the same. You learn one ship—you learn them all. I once knew a handful of humans who figured out how to fly a bird-of- prey.”
“You really don’t have to do anything,” said Leah. “We’re on course under computer control. Just watch the readouts for anything unusual.”
“What about me?” asked Paldor, sounding hurt. “I could do that.”
“When you get yourself together, maybe you will.” Leah rose to her feet, feeling the lack of sleep and the overabundance of adrenaline and grief. She grabbed the first-aid kit from the locker and sat down to minister to Bekra’s burnt stump of a leg.
“How did this happen?” she finally asked.
The Capellan grumbled, “I lost an argument to somebody who was a better shot.”
[98] Leah glanced pointedly at Maltz, sitting in the pilot’s seat, but the consul’s face remained stoic. She prepared a hypospray. “This will kill the pain.”
“I’m going to need a lot of it to kill all the pain,” replied the Capellan with a grim smile.
“I hear you,” answered Leah softly. She put gloves on her hands and took a prepared dressing and a tube of antibiotic ointment from the kit. Thankfully, she wouldn’t need the medical tricorder or surgical tools, because the wound had been cauterized by the disruptor.
“What about this planet?” asked Maltz from the front. “Pelleus V. It is on our way, and they have thirty-four million inhabitants. We could be there in six hours.”
“You weren’t supposed to do anything but watch the readouts,” answered Leah testily.
“That planet isn’t even in the Federation,” said Paldor, glancing over his shoulder.
The Klingon scratched the white stubble on his chin and chuckled. “So you can let them die if they are not in the Federation? Hmmm, you people are more practical than I thought.”
“We’re doing the best we can!” snapped Paldor. “How would you save them?”
“I was only looking for a Class-M planet where we could set down and fix the communications
array,” answered Maltz. “We need to get help. It just so happens that the nearest place is inhabited; and by the graph you are running, I can see it is in the direct path of the wave.”
“I saw the planet,” answered Leah Brahms as she finished dressing Bekra’s wound. “You should get some sleep,” she told the Capellan.
“Thank you, I’ll try,” he promised.
The scientist stood and went to the cockpit, motioning Paldor to get up so that she could take the copilot’s seat. She needed help, and this old Klingon seemed the most sane, competent, and [99] energetic among them. Sobbing and grumbling, the Tellarite squeezed past her to get to the back of the craft, and Leah slid into the seat he had vacated.
She looked at her new first officer and lowered her voice. “If you were me, what would you do?”
Maltz scowled. “You cannot land on a strange planet and expect them to voluntarily leave their homes at a moment’s notice—due to a threat you can’t explain. That is, if they even have a way to leave. We need help. Where are the vaunted reinforcements of the Federation?”
“It hit too suddenly,” Leah answered defensively, “and we lost a lot of ships during the war. Plus I hate to tell you, but this is a forgotten corner of the Federation. The wars, the wormholes—all of the action has been up by the zones. There aren’t a lot of settlements this close to the middle of the Milky Way.”
“But many settled worlds lie in the path of this thing,” observed Maltz, pointing to his screen. “If I’m not mistaken—expanding on your chart—one of the targets is Earth.”
“Earth?” asked Leah, leaning closer to the gaunt Klingon. She hadn’t seen the latest updates on the computer projections, but Maltz had figured them out rather quickly. She had to go to three other screens to verify his quick analysis. Yes, it seemed, Earth itself was in the path of this awful scourge.
“You know better than I do where Earth is,” remarked Leah.
He shrugged. “In my day, all of us learned those coordinates in basic training. We had to have some place to attack on the simulators and war games.”
“Right,” answered Leah dryly. “Exactly how many humans have you killed?”
The old warrior wrinkled his jagged brow. “Not enough, I can tell you. Had I killed just a few more, I would not be in this place.” With a grunt, he pointed at the screen. “The enemy is going to cut a streak through the Romulan Star Empire, too. I also know those coordinates.”
[100] Bekra suddenly sat up, not sleeping as peacefully as he appeared. “Did you say the Romulans will get hit, too?”
“This is only a projection, but you can see its path widening through the Neutral Zone.” The Klingon sighed and sat back in his seat. “It looks like you are going to need a lot of help to fight this thing.”
“Are you ever going to tell us who built it, and what you think it is?” asked Bekra.
The Klingon shook his head forcefully. “No. I will know the right person to tell, and it will have to be someone who can verify what I say. No one on this ship can do anything but doubt my sanity. Now, do we change course for this planet ... Pelleus V?”
Reluctantly, Leah Brahms nodded. “Yes.”
“Doctor, you are making the same mistake I made,” protested Paldor from the back.
“She is the captain—it is her mistake to make.” The Klingon narrowed his eyes at the Tellarite. “If you want to debate that point, you can take it up with me. Now all of you sleep—I will inform you when we get there.”
Leah nodded gratefully and rested her head on her arms, which were folded across the console. In a matter of seconds, she was asleep where she sat, her fate in the hands of the grizzled old Klingon.
In a sumptuously appointed stateroom on the namesake Sovereign-class flagship, the U.S.S. Sovereign, the gray-haired admiral turned off her viewscreen and lowered her reading glasses. In her sharp green eyes was an emotion seldom seen there—fear. She had witnessed many extraordinary events in her long career, but nothing like these reports and fragments from the Enterprise. It was hard to believe that this bitter fruit had been planted only six months ago. Someone had been busy making use of what they stole.
[101] She tapped a companel on her desk. “Nechayev to bridge.”
“Captain Tejeda here,” came a prompt response. “What can I do for you, Admiral?”
“Set course for solar system SY-911 in sector 4368. Maximum warp.”
“Sector 4368,” repeated the captain, sounding a bit doubtful as to what could be important there. “That will take us about thirty-three hours. What kind of mission should we prepare for?”
“When you need to know, I’ll tell you,” answered the admiral in a tone of voice that brooked no discussion. While most people were in awe of veteran captains of great starships, Nechayev treated them like underlings. It kept them from getting too full of themselves and reminded them that they were only links in a chain.
“Yes, Sir,” responded Captain Tejeda, properly chastened. “Should we alert Starfleet of our change in course?”
“I’ll do that,” she answered. “But you can alert the Enterprise that the Sovereign is en route to their general position, and tell them to keep sending me raw data.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“Nechayev out.” Taking a deep breath, the weary admiral activated her terminal one more time. “Computer, send a secure message to recipients list ‘Nechayev Priority One.’ ”
“What is the password?” demanded the computer.
“Tulip bulbs in spring,” answered Nechayev grimly.
“Proceed,” suggested the computer.
“Tulips are blooming again sooner than expected,” said Nechayev, her mouth feeling dry now that the dreaded words were finally out. “Weeding will require all hands. Blooms must be seen to be believed. Yours truly—A.”
She closed her eyes. “End message. Send it.”
“Message sent,” the reasonable voice of the computer assured her.
[102] Now a large part of the fleet was going to be mustered under some pretext and sent to the afflicted area. Other than seeing for herself how bad it was, there wasn’t anything else she could do. But knowing that didn’t ease Nechayev’s mind—her response still seemed inadequate.
She told herself, I have the best ship in the fleet on it, the second best coming for backup, and all the others getting ready to come. I’m hitting it with both barrels. Unfortunately, she couldn’t block out the knowledge that she had nothing in her arsenal which could stand up to what she feared was out there.
“If only I could see him once in a while,” said Beverly Crusher, her watery blue eyes staring at a beige bulkhead. “At least ... if I could get some kind of sign that he’s okay, I’d feel better.”
“Wesley is with extremely advanced beings,” said Deanna Troi, leaning forward in her chair. The dark-haired Betazoid pushed the teapot and cup across the elegant coffee table in her office, but Beverly wasn’t paying any attention to it. “I’m sure the Traveler is taking good care of him,” the counselor continued, “but I’m not so sure they have the same sense of time we do.”
“But why Wes?” asked Beverly, shaking her auburn hair with frustration. “There are billions of other humans—he could have taken anybody!”
The counselor smiled sympathetically. “Wes has a gift, and the Traveler got to know him. I think he chose well, too, because your son was bored with so much in Starfleet. He had basically mastered this job while he was still in high school. He was ready to move on.”
“I know, but sometimes ... it seems like he’s dead.” The distraught mother rose to her feet and paced the confines of the non-descript office. “I don’t want to stop him ... his development. But, dammit, I want to know where to send a birthday card! Is it too much to ask that he make contact with his mother?”
[103] Troi sighed, thinking it was always hardest to make a good friend face harsh reality. “The Traveler said he was taking Wes to another plane of existence, so we have to assume that contact is
difficult. He’s your ambassador to a race that is light-years ahead of ours. We don’t begin to understand how they get around.”
“They have incredible powers,” agreed Beverly, half in pride and half in fear. “I just want a sign that he’s okay.”
Troi’s combadge sounded a second later, and she listened with relief to the interruption.
“Picard to Troi.”
“Yes, Captain, Troi here.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt your appointment. Is Dr. Crusher with you?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I need you both in transporter room two,” ordered the captain. “We’ve made contact with a shuttlecraft of survivors who escaped from Hakon, and they may be injured or traumatized. We don’t want to prolong their ordeal, but we do have to find out what they know. Their shuttlecraft is damaged, so we’re taking them on as passengers.”
“We’re on our way. Troi out.” The counselor rose from her chair and moved toward the door, stopping when she realized that Beverly was still in her seat, gazing at the bulkhead.
“You know,” said Deanna softly, “we can send for a different medteam. I’ll tell the captain you weren’t feeling well.”
“No,” replied the doctor, rising to her feet and pushing back an errant strand of red hair. “I need to go and do my job. You’re right—if I’m not going to hear anything, then I’m not going to hear anything.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
Beverly waved her off. “Yes, you go on. I’ll pick up the medteam on the way.”
Troi nodded and strode through the door into the corridor. She [104] wished she could do more to comfort her friend, whose life had often been one of sacrifice, but she couldn’t bring herself to worry about someone as competent as Wesley Crusher. Then again, she wasn’t his mother.
After a quick trip in the turbolift, Deanna reached the broad corridor outside transporter room two at the same time that Captain Picard, Data, and La Forge came from the other direction. Of the three of them, only La Forge looked pleased, as if he were about to meet a friend coming for holiday. Both he and Data were carrying padds.
STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book One Page 10
