“Commander,” said Geordi, “I think Dr. Brahms needs to get some rest. Does she have quarters assigned to her?”
“Stateroom 1136,” answered Riker. “But I have a quick question for you, Dr. Brahms. The captain would like to know whether we can take your radiation suit and try to replicate it. We promise not to damage it, although we’ll have to take it apart.”
“Go ahead, if you think it will do some good,” answered Brahms wearily.
“Thank you. It’s good to have you onboard. Please don’t keep Mr. La Forge for long, because he has a staff meeting right now.”
“I won’t,” agreed Leah.
Geordi nodded and quickly ushered his charge toward the door. As they left the shuttlebay, he heard Dr. Crusher ask if anyone needed medical attention, and both the Capellan and the Tellarite demanded it. He didn’t really care about what happened to anyone else at the moment, because his entire focus was on Leah.
[181] So once again, he didn’t see Dolores Linton until they ran into her in the corridor. “Geordi!” she exclaimed, grabbing his arm. “You’re back! Is everything okay?”
“Dolores,” he said, flustered to be standing between the two women. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, after you stood me up—”
Geordi banged his palm on his forehead. “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot all about our date.”
He looked at Leah with embarrassment, but she was smiling at his dilemma. She probably thinks that Dolores is my girlfriend! thought Geordi with alarm.
“It’s all right, I know you’re busy,” said the geologist cheerfully. “I looked you up and found out you had left the ship again; then I found out when you were due back.”
The door opened again, and the medteam walked out, with Bekra on a gurney and Paldor limping beside him. They were followed by the Klingon and an entourage of security officers sticking close to him. Two more crew members carried the radiation suit, and Riker and Data were the last ones out of the shuttlebay.
Riker looked at La Forge with a frown. “You’re still here? We’ve got that staff meeting, so we’ll have to find somebody else to take Dr. Brahms to her quarters.”
“I’ll take her there,” offered Dolores Linton brightly. “I haven’t got anything better to do.”
Geordi wanted to object, insisting that it was his job to protect Leah, but he couldn’t make a scene in the hallway, surrounded by people. Besides, Dolores Linton didn’t have anything better to do. “Number 1136,” he said.
Riker smiled charmingly at the bubbly young lady. “Thank you very much, Miss—”
“Dolores Linton, geologist with the mission that’s on hold.” Dolores turned to Leah Brahms and smiled. “So you lived! That’s great. Geordi was very worried about you.”
[182] “I bet.” Brahms smiled wanly, while La Forge wanted to crawl into a hole. “Go on,” Leah told him softly. “I’ll see you later.”
Geordi just nodded blankly, reluctant to be parted from Leah, especially when he didn’t know what Dolores would say about him. Nevertheless, with Riker and Data looking expectantly at him, he knew where his duty lay. He nodded at his commanding officer and the three of them strode off down the corridor.
The android slowed down to let La Forge catch up with him. “It appears that you are making headway with Mission Specialist Linton,” he said.
“Data!” exclaimed Geordi, shocked. “We’re right in the middle of a crisis—I’m not thinking about that.”
The android cocked his head. “But I have noticed that humans often experience their most intense love affairs in the midst of a crisis.”
“Commander Riker, what did you do with the old Klingon?” asked Geordi, pointedly changing the subject.
Riker smiled. “He wanted to talk to somebody, so I sent him to see our ship’s counselor. Let Deanna find out his state of mind. We already know he’s the only Klingon survivor from the first appearance of Genesis, but we don’t know how much good that will do us. What about the Capellan? Is he really a spy for the Romulans?”
Geordi shook his head. “He never denied it whenever Maltz accused him of it.”
“Maybe they’ll both be useful,” said Riker with a heave of his broad shoulders. “One thing for sure, we need all the help we can get. Now that you’re back, the Enterprise and the Sovereign are headed in tandem to the next planet in danger—Persephone V.”
“I know some people who retired there,” murmured Geordi.
“Half of Starfleet is retired there,” said Riker, stopping at the turbolift door. “Now they’re all going to have to be evacuated. Being ex-Starfleet, maybe they’ll obey orders and will do what they’re told.”
The door opened, and the commander stepped inside, shaking [183] his head. “I can’t believe that we invented this device, and now we’re fleeing in the face of it. Somebody is grabbing whole solar systems without firing a shot, and we feel good if we save a few lives before we run like rabbits. Where does it end?”
“When we stop running,” answered Data, drawing the logical conclusion.
sixteen
“Sorry I’m late,” said Deanna Troi, rushing into the observation lounge and seeking an empty seat at the conference table. Will Riker smiled warmly at her, and she gave him a fleeting smile. Also in attendance were Data, Geordi, Beverly, and, of course, Captain Picard.
“We’ve just been going over what we know about the Genesis Wave, which isn’t nearly enough,” said the captain, tight-lipped. “How is Consul Maltz?”
“He seems fine,” she answered. “He’s perfectly lucid, and he knows all about Dr. Carol Marcus and the original Genesis Project. He’s an old-fashioned Klingon from another era—the kind you don’t see much anymore. In fact, he kept asking me why we’re not doubling back to Seran to get revenge.”
Picard answered, “Admiral Nechayev has sent a small task force of Defiant-class ships to try to find the source. What else did our guest say?”
“He has a lot of respect for Leah Brahms and says that she’s the one who saved them. He also says we should use the Capellan to contact the Romulans. He insists that Bekra is a spy.”
[185] The captain scowled and said, “We still don’t know what to tell the Romulans. The admiral thinks we’ll have the wave’s course fully plotted by the time we get to Persephone V. Gearing up for this has been like gearing up for another war, only we don’t know where the front is.”
He paced in front of a cabinet full of gleaming models of other ships which had born the name Enterprise. “In the meantime, we’re pursuing a few courses of action on our own. Commander Riker is spearheading an effort to replicate as many of Dr. Brahms’ radiation suits as we can. Our thinking is that our people on the surface of Persephone V may have to stay until the last second, evacuating people. If we don’t get them out in time, this will give them a chance to survive.”
He continued around the table. “La Forge and Brahms will work on a way to expand the phase-shifting technology in her suit—maybe there’s a way it can protect more than one person at a time. Data is going to work on a plan to stop the wave permanently, and Dr. Crusher is studying the biological data to see if we can lessen the effect of the wave, or reverse it.”
“You’ll need live samples for that, won’t you?” asked Troi.
“I would settle for tricorder readings,” answered Crusher.
“That’s another use for the radiation suits,” said Riker with a smile. “We can stick it out long enough to get tricorder readings.”
“We?” asked Deanna doubtfully, not liking the idea that Will would be wearing one of those suits. “What’s my assignment?”
“Your job,” answered the captain. “This ship will soon be full of traumatized evacuees. And I want you around whenever I speak with either Consul Maltz and Consul Bekra.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Riker cleared his throat and tapped his chronometer. “Captain, it’s time for our memorial service.”
“Yes,” said Picard with a sigh.
“Let’s adjourn. After the service, we all have plenty of work to do, but don’t forget to eat and rest. Dismissed.”
[186] While the others filed out of the room, Deanna hung back to wait for Riker. She lowered her voice to ask Will, “You’re not planning to hang out on a planet in one of those suits, are you?”
“It will probably be Data,” answered the first officer, “although he shouldn’t be down there alone. We’ll see.”
“I know you’re a thrill-seeker,” she said, “but you don’t need to stand up to this.”
“We need to stand up to it eventually,” answered Riker, ending the conversation on an uneasy note.
Two minutes later, the same group from the briefing room filed into the Antares Theater, a small amphitheater on deck fifteen where Data had performed a few nights earlier. The hall was already starting to fill up with somber crew members, many of whom would normally be sleeping this shift. Deanna Troi doubted whether anyone was finding it easy to sleep these nights.
There was a podium center stage and a lone drummer with a snare drum; he was one of Will’s musician friends from his jazz band. The commander waited patiently while the crowd settled down and latecomers straggled in. Riker opened his handheld padd and set it on the podium. Most of the audience were seated, but Deanna remained standing in the back with her captain.
There was a slight commotion and an uplift of voices around the main door, and she turned to see Admiral Nechayev rush in. Nechayev strode immediately to Picard’s side and greeted him with a nod. On stage, Will wisely decided to wait a few seconds longer.
“Hello, Captain,” said the admiral. “I’m glad I’m not late.”
“Thank you for coming,” replied Picard. “I was going to say something, but we would be honored if you would say a few words.”
“I will,” she answered bluntly.
When the audience had quieted again, Riker began speaking, his deep voice carrying over the crowd. “I would like to read the names, ranks, and accomplishments of our fallen shipmates in RC Three.”
Accompanied by drum rolls, he read basic data about each of the [187] dead, and Deanna recalled similar ceremonies during the Dominion war—mass funerals, no time for individual ones. When he was finished, Will looked at the captain, who nodded toward Admiral Nechayev.
“We are honored to have Admiral Nechayev onboard to speak to you.” Riker nodded to the drummer, and the two of them relinquished the stage.
The stiff-backed, gray-haired woman tugged on her jacket and lifted her chin, showing off all her bars and pips as she strode toward the podium. The audience hushed as she turned to face them, except for a few scattered sniffles and sobs.
Her expression stoic, Nechayev began, “I didn’t know your ten shipmates who perished, but I can tell you a great deal about them. They were selfless, devoted, loyal, well-trained, and courageous. I’m sure they weren’t any more perfect than the rest of us—but when your ship was threatened, they never thought twice about risking their lives to save yours.
“We who serve in Starfleet are the front lines of the Federation, the first ones to confront threats and enemies. Yet among us is a front line—our first line of defense—and that is our repair and rescue crews. We all know that space is not a natural environment for our species. The only thing that stands between us and disaster is our repair crews. Their work is largely unsung, but they have saved more lives than all the admirals, doctors, and diplomats put together.”
She nodded at a tearful crew member in the front row. “It’s all right to cry, because your survival is a testament to their bravery. Now you need to make the most of it. We’ve been through wars and catastrophes before, but none of them was as devastating as the threat we face today. We must all take inspiration from those we mourn, because now we must be the first line of defense for all the worlds that are in danger.”
The admiral took a breath and lowered her head. “I would like to observe a few moments of silence for our fallen shipmates. Not only [188] for them—but also for the millions of innocent beings who have perished from this awful onslaught. May they all rest in peace according to their beliefs.”
As the theater stilled, Deanna Troi bowed her head. She wanted to meditate, but her troubled mind wouldn’t let her. She kept worrying that this was only the beginning of something much worse.
Less than seven hours later, Deanna Troi walked numbly down a corridor crammed with evacuees. They sat propped against the bulkheads, looking sullen and dispirited; a few of them barely moved their legs, forcing her to step over them. Most of these displaced people were older humans, although there were children and representatives from almost every species in the Federation. When it came to lovely shore-leave planets, Persephone V was almost as famous as Pacifica, although its greater distance from Earth made it more of a retirement colony.
“Commander!” called an older man jumping to his feet. In his desperation, he gripped her arm. “You’ve got to help me! I’m Captain Kellman, retired, and my daughter, Amy, is still down on the planet. She was camping in the Cosgrove Wilderness on the South Continent. I keep asking them to look for her, but nobody will help me!”
Troi slowly extricated her arm from his grip. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’ve got to evacuate the urban centers first—get as many people as we can. And we can’t change our orbit to search for people, because the whole effort is coordinated—”
“Damn you!” shouted someone behind her. “Have you been down there? The whole thing is uncoordinated. It’s chaos!” There were grumbles of agreement up and down the corridor, and many of the strangers—who would have been dead without their intervention—began to complain.
Deanna wanted to run screaming from all of this, but she knew it [189] was her job to listen to these unfortunate souls and let them blow off a little steam. But there were so many people—the entire ship was filling up with them—and she couldn’t do any more than briefly wander among them. She could organize group therapy sessions and memorials, but she had no idea how long they would be onboard the Enterprise. They could be off-loaded to the nearest Class-M world that had been spared. The captain had been right—she didn’t need any extra assignments, because her own job was overwhelming.
When Deanna tried to move on, Captain Kellman stepped in front of her, blocking her way. The old gray-haired autocrat was used to commanding people and having them do what he wanted. “Listen,” he said desperately, “just give me a shuttlecraft, and I’ll go get my daughter.”
“Only the captain—”
“The captain is in hiding!” bellowed another man. “Where is he? Let him come down here and explain to us what’s happening. He’s a coward!” There were shouts of agreement.
“What is this thing that’s supposed to hit the planet?” demanded a woman.
All of a sudden, there was a cacophony of noise as a dozen people bombarded her with questions and complaints. Backed up into a corner, Deanna considered calling for security, but she remembered that every security officer was busy—either on the planet surface or protecting the transporter rooms and crucial areas of the ship. Both the shuttlebay and bridge were under heavy guard while the ship bulged with ten thousand extra people, expected to go much higher.
They pressed her against the bulkhead, peppering her with demands. Captain Kellman was right in her face, insisting they give him a shuttlecraft. She could sense their panic rising, along with her own. Finally Deanna Troi exploded and gave Kellman a firm push in the chest.
[190] “Step back and maintain order!” she bellowed. “I don’t care if you were all admirals—I am an active-duty officer on a mission. You will maintain order, or I’ll have you thrown into the brig! Is that clear?” She didn’t mention that the brig was probably already full of evacuees.
Kellman gulped and stepped back. “Yes, Sir.” The others followed his lead, looking chastened and depressed. A scowl firmly set on her face, Deanna shoved her way through them. She was on a mission, but it had nothing to do w
ith rescuing people from Persephone V. The only one she was trying to rescue at the moment was her beloved, Will Riker.
She continued down the crowded corridor, eyes straight ahead, trying to ignore the pleas and questions of the evacuees. The way they littered the hallway and the vacant looks on their faces reminded her uneasily of the Borg, who had once taken over these same passageways.
Moving briskly, Troi finally reached transporter room one, which was guarded by three security officers wearing riot gear and carrying phaser rifles. It almost seemed as if the Enterprise had been overrun by intruders, and in a way it had been.
The security officers acknowledged her, and one of them pressed a panel to open the door for her. She strode into the transporter room, half-expecting it to be jammed with evacuees, as it had been earlier. Instead there were only three people there now: Will Riker, Data, and the transporter chief, a dour Andorian named Rhofistan. Both Will and Data were dressed in T-shirts and underwear, nothing else. Three hulking white radiation suits, replicas of Leah Brahms’ prototype, stood on the transporter platform, looking like snowmen about to transport to the North Pole.
“Deanna!” said Will nervously. “What are you doing here?”
“You don’t have to be an empath to know what I’m doing here,” she answered. “I don’t want you going down there, Will ... trying to live through that thing.”
[191] “There is risk involved,” admitted Data. “But we need tricorder readings and observations taken at close range. Plus we need a greater understanding of how the phase-inversion avoids the mutagenic effects.”
“Data, I don’t mind if you go down there. Just be careful.” Troi walked over to Will and took his hands, gazing at him with her sultry brown eyes. “It’s you, Imzadi. I lost you before, and I don’t want to do it again. I know you’re in charge of this operation, and you could send somebody else.”
He enveloped her in his brawny arms and pulled her toward him. “I’ll come back to you, I promise. We’ve tested these suits under a simulation, and they work fine. Dr. Brahms showed us the controls, and there isn’t time to train anyone else. Besides, everyone else is busy.”
STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book One Page 18
