“That will be welcome,” muttered Yorka, pulling away from the beaming Ferengi. Other refugees bombarded him with questions, and the prylar was forced to raise his arms and plow through the crowd at an accelerated pace. His destination was the southwest corner of the temple, where they kept the sick.
“I’m sorry! We can’t provide you with transportation, private rooms, things we don’t have,” he announced, more for the benefit of his workers than the refugees. “But we have more to offer than food and shelter. Our teachings are free to all who will listen. In the words of our enlightened Kai Opaka, we cannot control the forces around [10] us—we can only control our reaction to them. Although grief and confusion are understandable, the Prophets tell us to search for true meaning within our lives.”
He paused, hoping he had their attention, except for the bawling babies. “Remember Shabren’s Fifth Prophecy—the Golden Age will not come until we defeat the Evil One. I believe that has happened! The terror which brought you here is over, and now we can rebuild. All of you are frightened, but you’re still breathing. Yes, your lives have been changed forever, but you must ask yourselves why?
“Change is normal, and we believe these cycles have a purpose. This purging process has happened often in Bajoran history, and we are experts at interpreting the will of the Prophets. We have a service in about thirty minutes, and I will deliver a talk I gave on this subject at the Vedek Assembly. Find out what this disaster means for your—”
The front door slammed open, and someone screamed as a shrouded figure staggered into the temple. The withered, wraithlike visitor was carrying a shiny box that seemed half her size, and people shrunk away from her. Yorka peered over the top of heads, unsure what he was seeing—the figure was like a moving blur that became more distinct as she came closer to him.
“Yorka!” croaked the visitor, lurching toward the staircase. The former vedek felt compelled to follow, although he didn’t know why. The crowd parted for him as he approached the insubstantial figure on the vestibule stairs. Everyone in the temple seemed to know this was a momentous occasion, but it was hard to tell why.
“Privacy,” she insisted. He wasn’t sure if she had spoken or merely thought it, but he understood.
He pointed up the stairs. “The vestibule.”
“Take my luggage,” she added, “and hurry. I’m dying.”
He took her box as commanded and escorted her up the metal stairs to the richly appointed vestibule, where he met with worshipers privately or in small groups. Her arm felt brittle and bony, but there was something familiar and comforting about her presence. [11] He felt as though he knew her, although he could not yet see her face because of her hood.
Passing through brocaded curtains, they reached the vestibule, and he motioned to an upholstered bench. A closed door at the end of the chamber led to his private office and sparse living quarters. If his visitor was ill, he wouldn’t hesitate to let her lie down in his own bed. Yorka felt that much concern over her comfort.
She turned around and dropped the hood, and he gasped! It was Kai Opaka, alive and smiling beatifically at him. The kai was a short woman, but she seemed to expand in her garments, becoming more regal with each passing second. Despite her calm expression, she was clearly injured, because she clutched a scorch mark on her side which was seeping dark fluid.
“Let me fetch a doctor!” cried Yorka. “It is a profound honor, but we must treat you and—”
“No,” murmured Kai Opaka. “My time is short, and you must listen to me.”
When she said her time was short, Yorka suddenly remembered that Kai Opaka was dead—had been for over ten years. Yet here she stood before him, ebbing in and out of his consciousness. He thought that this was either the sign from the Prophets he had been waiting for, or proof positive that he was too insane to help anyone.
There came shouting and commotion from the front door of the temple, and Yorka was momentarily distracted. “What is that?”
“My pursuers. I have less time than I thought.” The Kai affixed him with baleful dark eyes, and her ear jewelry seemed to vibrate with the force of her presence. “Listen to me, Vedek Yorka, for I bring your salvation. It’s inside this box that you carried. But you must guard it from the Romulans—they cannot be trusted with such power. Guard it from all—I am entrusting you with the greatest force in the universe. May the Prophets guide you in its use.”
With eagerness and fear in equal measure, the monk touched the gleaming box. Before he could even find the latch, more noise and [12] shouts sounded from below, and he heard Acolyte Bowmyk’s voice over the others. “Prylar Yorka! You must come! Please!”
He stuck his head out of the curtains of the vestibule and saw Bowmyk struggling up the stairs. “What is it? I’m very busy.”
“Sir, strangers are looting the temple. They’re in the sanctuary!” The acolyte pointed urgently to multiple disturbances among the refugees.
Yorka gazed grimly at the bedlam in what had once been his solemn and austere temple. Two figures in black environmental suits were overturning beds and pews as they ransacked the place, and a third was interrogating witnesses at the point of a weapon. Still the refugees pressed forward, venting their anger and frustration at these masked strangers, who dared to make their lives even more miserable. It was clear from their body language that the intruders feared for their safety in this volatile crowd, which was turning into a mob.
The monk fought the impulse to yell at the intruders, but he needed distractions at the moment. “Come inside,” he whispered to the acolyte. “I want you to meet someone.”
“But the refugees ... they’re in danger from—”
“Leave them.” Yorka pulled the youth into the vestibule and motioned toward his special guest. But the kai was gone. Instead there was nothing but a pile of moss and dead leaves littering the floor. Clothing was piled atop the dried brush, but it was common street wear, not the elegant raiment the kai had been wearing.
“What is the meaning of this, sir?” asked the acolyte. The skittish look in his eyes told Yorka that he was about to bolt and never come back to the temple. With determination, the elder got a grip on his fear and turned to look at the metal box, which was intact and unchanged.
She is gone ... perhaps in hiding. Maybe it was a changeling. At this moment, Yorka needed help, and he couldn’t appear as befuddled as he felt. Although he couldn’t explain what he had seen, he knew the mysterious box was real.
[13] “I have a valuable object here,” he began. “It was given to me by a servant of the Prophets. We must protect it with our lives.”
Yorka stuck out his chin confidently and scanned the room, looking for anything which might help them. His eyes lit upon the circuit box which controlled the flow of power to the industrial building. Until the remodeling, the vestibule and monk’s quarters had been the control room for an automated warehouse, and the regulating equipment was still located close at hand.
“I want you to make a dash out the front door and distract them,” said the Prylar. “Don’t worry—before you even get halfway there, I’m going to shut off all the lights in the building. Then I’ll go out the back door. It should be mass confusion, and they’ll be stuck in darkness for a while.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the young acolyte with a nervous gulp. He didn’t look convinced.
“Be brave,” said Yorka, gripping the youth’s scrawny shoulder. “I know you think this is odd, but when you’ve been around as long as I have, you’ll see that the Prophets act in strange ways. We can’t stop to debate their choices or the cycles of life—we have to seize what is presented to us.”
He gazed at the rectangular box, which was almost a meter long. “You’ll never do anything more important in your life than this, Bowmyk. If you could have seen her—”
“Seen her?” asked the acolyte puzzledly. He glanced at the pile of moss and old clothes.
“Don’t view this through the lens of the everyday,” cautioned the
stout monk. “This is the beginning of something grand ... something which will change our dreary lives and this dreary place. You must do exactly as I tell you—for the will of the Prophets. Repeat it with me!”
He grabbed the lad’s hands and said, “For the will of the Prophets, I will do this.” The acolyte dutifully repeated it with him.
Moving like a man possessed, the former vedek grabbed a red [14] velvet curtain from the wail and wrapped it around the chrome box. For a decoy, he grabbed a brazier from the altar and wrapped it in an identical curtain. “You take that, and act like it’s priceless. Run now out the front door. Go!”
The youth hesitated. “How will ... how will I find you, sir?”
“I’ll find you and the others as surely as this wonder has found me. Go on!”
Inspired by the energized monk, the acolyte rushed from the vestibule and pounded down the stairs. Yorka grabbed the unknown object and ran to the circuit box on the wall. He waited until he heard the unfortunate screams, then he pressed the membrane keypad, where it read, “All Circuits Off.”
At once, every cubic centimeter of the building was plunged into darkness, and frightened wails and screeches reverberated in the metal building. Yorka moved swiftly to the stairs, which he trod a hundred times a day. Even in darkness, he could navigate them without much trouble, letting his legs remember the spacing and distances. The dark wasn’t constant, because there were disrupter blasts that illuminated enraged, panicked refugees swarming in every direction.
Yorka was remarkably calm as he ignored all of this. Clearly the kai’s pursuers were in the service of evil—she had mentioned Romulans. His feet hit the carpet, and he was jostled by figures moving in every direction; it was all he could do to maintain his grip on the box. But Yorka envisioned his path in his mind, using the walls as touchstones. Familiar ramparts ran all the way from the stairs to the back door, and all he had to do was navigate them. For ten years, he had lived in this manufactured city, and he knew where to hide. He even knew where to get transportation.
As screams, shouts, and disrupter beams enlivened the darkness inside the temple, Prylar Yorka muscled his way past the mob choking the back door. He spilled into the street along with several others and staggered to his feet, still gripping his prize. A crowd was forming, attracted by the chaos inside, and Yorka heard sirens. [15] Police hovercraft were headed down the narrow side street, and terrified refugees rushed out to meet them. This wasn’t any time to be questioned, not until he understood what he possessed.
Pulling a hood over his head, the Bajoran monk slipped into the wall of onlookers and made his escape. Thank you for remembering me, he said silently to the Prophets. I won’t disappoint you.
two
“Captain,” said Data from the ops console on the Enterprise-E, “we are approaching the unidentified vessel in sector 734. Partial sensor readings are active again.” The android’s fingers were a blur as they worked the instrument panel. “Warp signature indicates it is a Steamrunner-class starship, and the only one of those still missing is the Barcelona. If it is the Barcelona, it is forty-two degrees and one point five light-years off course.”
Beverly Crusher turned around in the command chair and glanced at the android. “Do we have a visual yet?”
“Only with interference.” Data activated the large viewscreen at the front of the bridge, plus several smaller auxiliary screens. The image suffered from occasional static, but it was clear enough. In a desolate sector of space floated a sleek, slate-gray starship about half as large as the Enterprise. Her nacelles were below the hull, which made her look something like a Klingon ship. Her running lights were still blinking, but the bridge crew had seen that before during this search-and-rescue operation.
Beverly was afraid to ask the next question. “Any lifesigns?”
[17] Data shook his head. “Sensor readings are inconclusive. I am attempting to. compensate for the interference, which I believe is caused by the radiation. The radiation readings are still inaccurate and will take time to analyze.”
“Keep our shields at maximum, and keep trying to hail them.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the Andorian officer on tactical.
The red-haired doctor rose to her feet and adjusted her tunic, as she had seen the regular captain do on more than one occasion. “Conn, take us to half impulse and get as close as we need to verify the lifesign readings. Then pull back to maximum tractor-beam range.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the Deltan male on the navigation console. After three earlier salvage operations, the crew was getting used to this routine, grim as it was.
They had many good reasons not to haphazardly enter one of these abandoned ships, and the best was the possibility of infestation by the moss creatures. Crusher knew firsthand the devastating effect that could have on a person ... and a ship. Despite their precautions, all they had found so far were crew remains—no moss creatures, alive or dead. Under those circumstances, it was a simple decision to tow a ship to a starbase and do a thorough examination under ideal conditions. As yet, the doctor hadn’t heard why some crews near the wave’s path had died while most lived, and she was getting impatient for an answer.
The threat should be over, except for the cheering and the funerals, but the mop-up had taken on a gruesome life of its own. Maybe these new anomalies weren’t related to the Genesis Wave, which made them an even greater mystery. It might take researchers decades to sort out what exactly that terrible emitter had done to this chunk of Federation space.
As they approached the Barcelona, the image on the viewscreen grew more distinct, and again Crusher was struck by how peaceful the starship looked. Maybe they weren’t too late to help the crew. At that thought, a shiver seized Beverly’s spine, and she realized that if the crew was still alive, moss creatures could be among them. She [18] tried to tell herself that what had happened to her was an aberration ... a desperate move by a foe who was cornered. Since the Genesis Wave was unleashed, there had been only a handful of reported cases of infestation in Starfleet, she reminded herself. But those odds didn’t reassure her, not when she thought about the ease with which they had taken over her body, mind, and ship.
“Captain,” said Data suddenly. “I am reading three distinct lifesigns aboard the Barcelona.”
Crusher looked at him with surprise, then turned to the image of the ship on the viewscreen. “Can you isolate them?”
“Roughly, yes. They are not together.” With incredible speed, the android flipped through pages of information. On the main viewscreen, three blips appeared overlaid on the starship—one toward the pointed bow, one midship to port, and another in the stern, perhaps a torpedo bay.
“Can we use transporters?” asked Crusher.
“Inadvisable,” answered Data, “with these levels of radiation. It would also be inadvisable to lower our shields.”
The acting captain looked at the Andorian on the tactical station. “Any answer to our hails?”
“None, sir,” reported the dour, blue-skinned humanoid. “We have tried every known frequency.”
The doctor nodded decisively. “Conn, take us back to a safe distance, say a million kilometers. We could take a shuttlecraft over there, or we could tow it out of the radiation field ... maybe. Either way, we’ll need a medical team. Data, alert sickbay.”
“Yes, Doctor,” answered the android, subtly hinting that she had just reverted back to the ship’s medical officer.
Crusher took his hint and pressed her comm badge. “Crusher to Riker.”
“Yes, Doctor,” came the voice of the first officer.
“I’m sorry to interrupt the poker game, but a situation has come up. That bogey we’re investigating is a Steamrunner-class cruiser, and [19] we’ve got three life-forms on it. I want to take a medical team over there.”
“We have to consider our orders,” said Riker hesitantly. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
While she waited to be relieved, Beverly Crusher tappe
d the companel again and said, “Crusher to Ogawa.”
“Ogawa here,” came a voice with only a hint of sleepiness.
“Are you up for a little excursion outside the ship?” asked Crusher. Alyssa’s husband, Andrew, was still among the missing after the Genesis disaster, and Beverly was being careful how much work she gave her long-time colleague. She wanted to maintain a balance—give Alyssa enough to keep busy but not so much that she couldn’t meet with Counselor Troi and deal with her emotions.
After a pause, the lieutenant answered, “I heard the call for a med team. I was about to respond.”
“Then I read your mind,” said the doctor. “I’ll meet you in sickbay as soon as I get off the bridge.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Ogawa, sounding as efficient as ever. “I’ll organize the rest of the team for you.”
“Thank you. Crusher out.” She moved behind the conn and discussed their positioning with the pilot, making sure they were well beyond the range of the radiation. The radiation field was difficult to assess because of fluctuations in the scanners, but there were a number of exotic types, all intermingled. From their new position, no lifesigns registered on the distressed ship.
Just when Crusher was beginning to think Riker would never arrive to relieve her, the turbolift door slid open. Riker was there all right, but it was Captain Picard who entered first. Will had decided to fetch the captain, although she would have preferred to let Jean-Luc sleep.
Picard nodded curtly to her. “Doctor, I hope you don’t mind my coming along. The commander knew I would be interested in this. Please report.”
In businesslike fashion, she informed him about their approach to [20] what they thought was a derelict, the discovery of three lifesigns, their withdrawal to a distance away from the radiation, and her wish to take a shuttlecraft over to the stricken vessel.
The captain frowned sharply, his laugh lines crinkling to the point where only his brow remained smooth. “We’re under orders not to crack open these ships unless we have to. From a shuttle, you would have to force an entrance.”
STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book Three Page 2
