STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book Three

by John Vornholt

  In the mirror, she saw the same short, light-brown hair she always saw. By now, her hair had so much gray in it that it was mostly a drab sandy color, but she could live with that. Her eyes were still piercing [31] blue and deep-set, her mouth thin and determined. But nobody would notice those features, not when half her face was weathered by decades of command and strife, and the other half was as smooth and pristine as a teenager’s. On one side, the bags, wrinkled, jowls, and discoloration of her years were prominent; on the other side, they didn’t exist. One half was spotted with age, and the other half was freckled with youth.

  It was the most startling face she had ever seen, and Admiral Alynna Nechayev was rather proud of it. Her visage was so bizarre that one had to laugh, while shedding a few tears at the same time. Yes, I’m a survivor of the Genesis Wave, she thought, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

  As the admiral gazed at herself, she couldn’t help wondering what the Genesis effect could do for the rest of her body. It could make all of her as youthful as a teenager, which was both frightening and tempting. The Genesis technology had so much potential for good that it was tempting to try it again—to see whether it could be tamed.

  Yet Nechayev knew her face was a cautionary tale, saying to anyone who looked that the Genesis Wave did not create life out of nothing—it altered what had existed there before. In her case, that was seventy years of worry, experience, laughter, and tears—all traces of which were gone from the left side of her face.

  That’s why she had elected to have the youthful half of her face aged, rather than have the older part sculpted to look young. Besides, the surgeons didn’t think they could duplicate what the glob of still mutating Genesis material had done. Commander La Forge’s desperate act had created a walking billboard for what was wrong with the Genesis technology.

  Admiral Nechayev glanced at the clock in her hospital room and saw that she had only five minutes left to change her mind. She could have either side changed to look like the other, or she could leave her face as it was. That was tempting, if only for the shock value, but the admiral didn’t need medals or external [32] representations to show dedication. Her subordinates knew who she was; all of Starfleet knew who she was—she was the one who had slipped up and let Carol Marcus be abducted by an enemy bent on their destruction. Her split face was not a symbol of heroism, but of failure, and it mirrored the conflict in her life.

  I need to change more than this face, decided Nechayev.

  She adjusted her hair and the collar of her hospital gown before turning away from the mirror, then she crossed to her desk. Befitting her importance, this room had a computer terminal, comm link, library on isolinear chips, map screen, and other devices patched into Starfleet Headquarters. She was kept fully apprised of the cleanup effort, which was already behind schedule after only a week.

  The admiral sat down at her desk, both sides of her face looking determined. “Computer,” she said, “relay this message to Admiral Rendelez, Chief of Starfleet Command, standard routing.” That would ensure he wouldn’t get the message until she had entered surgery.

  “Admiral, effective immediately, I am resigning from the admiralty and Starfleet Command. You have been very considerate in not busting me down to an ensign over my handling of the Carol Marcus affair, and my slow reaction to the Genesis threat. I can see I will have to do it for you. I don’t want to command fleets anymore, or worry about security for the entire Federation. I just want to command one ship with a good crew. I want to get out there and do some good on a localized basis, like the captains I admire. We’ve talked about them.”

  She cleared her throat and went on, “Therefore, I am requesting to be demoted to captain and assigned to a ship in the fleet. It shouldn’t be a flagship—just a regular ship that needs a captain. If you do not grant this request, I’ll have no choice but to resign completely from Starfleet and seek a post in a civilian relief organization. I have several ideas how I might be useful there, too. Sincerely, Alynna Nechayev. Computer, send.”

  “Message sent.”

  The admiral sat back in her chair and breathed a sigh of relief, [33] just as the chime sounded on her door. The chime was followed by the pleasant smile of a young female orderly. “Admiral, they’ve asked me to tell you there’s going to be a half-hour delay. We’ve been swamped with victims of radiation poisoning.”

  Nechayev sat up with interest. “Radiation poisoning? What kind of radiation poisoning? From where?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted the young woman. “I only know they were brought here from a starbase, where they couldn’t help them.”

  “Couldn’t help them—at a starbase?” Now the admiral jumped out of her chair and walked toward the orderly. “Get me a wheelchair. I’ll sit in the hall if I have to, but I’m getting out of this room. Understood?”

  “Yes, Admiral!” snapped the young woman.

  At least for now I’m still an admiral, thought Nechayev. I might as well use it while I can.

  A few minutes later, Nechayev was sitting in the corridor outside triage, with the wrinkled side of her face turned toward the wall. A young man came up to her, but upon seeing her entire face, he recoiled, mumbled something apologetic, and left. Nechayev smiled wistfully at this, thinking about what might have been were Genesis used as a Fountain of Youth. Now more than ever she realized why her predecessors had wanted to keep Genesis a secret. And why they had all failed.

  When two more doctors walked past, the admiral went back to eavesdropping on the personnel who came and went in the corridor. She had learned a great deal during her time spent sitting in the hall. As she had suspected, the five recently admitted cases of radiation poisoning were very serious, because the radiation couldn’t be identified and conventional treatments didn’t work. The only ones left from twenty-some original cases were these five, all Deltans, who were known for being hardy. Still they were dying.

  She had many questions she wanted to ask, but Nechayev admitted to herself that she was a patient here, not in charge. The staff [34] had plenty to do without a nosy layperson butting in, asking dumb questions. She would eventually read a report, and soon she would be conducted into the inner sanctum herself. If she wanted information, she had to be patient and let the medical staff gather it.

  They didn’t conduct her into surgery until almost an hour later, and she could tell from the glum faces that something had gone wrong. “What is it?” she asked her lead surgeon, a Coridan named Heshreef.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” he lied. “We don’t win them all, you know.”

  “The five Deltans,” replied Nechayev knowingly. “I heard they’re not going to make it.”

  “You’re well informed as usual,” said Dr. Heshreef with a forced smile. “One is already dead. Maybe some unconventional treatment will work on the others.”

  He motioned to the operating table, while he turned on a whirring piece of equipment with an overhead viewscreen. “Your turn, Admiral. Let’s hope we have better luck with you. Nurse, prepare the anesthesia.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “What are you doing for the Deltans?” asked Nechayev as she lay down on the table.

  “We can’t do much for them,” admitted the doctor, studying the readouts on his equipment. “The cellular damage is just too extensive. They’re all comatose. We’ve brought in a Vulcan mind-meld specialist to see if she can determine what they were doing when they were stricken. Without more data, we’re helpless.”

  “I’d like to see that mind-meld,” said Nechayev, rising from the table. Suddenly anything sounded better than surgery.

  “And so you will ... after your own procedure,” answered Heshreef, pushing her back onto the table. “Nurse, anesthesia.”

  Suddenly, figures in white hooded suits were hovering over the admiral, and she felt a hypospray on her neck. Alynna Nechayev guessed that she had to relinquish control of her life for the next few [35] hours, something she had never been good at d
oing. But if she was going to be a captain at the beck and call of the admiralty, she had to learn to do just that.

  With so many beds filled, Captain Picard felt as if he were touring sickbay after a fierce battle in the Dominion war. Despite hearing Riker’s report, he still wasn’t sure what had happened on the Barcelona, except that one member of the boarding party was lost and the others were in sickbay with injuries. To top the bad news off, the ship’s chief medical officer occupied one of the beds.

  The first two beds were occupied by banged-up security officers, one of whom was wearing a cast from head to toe. The other had a phaser wound that had nearly taken off the top of his skull, by the looks of it.

  Beverly was in the third bed, with Ogawa hovering over her. She gave the captain a wan smile as he approached, and he managed a similar anemic smile. “Hello, Beverly. I heard you injured your eyes. How do you feel?”

  Beverly gave him as much of a shrug as her tired body could muster. “I’m okay, Jean-Luc. I’ll be up in a minute ... just having my final checkup.”

  “I expect you to use the eyedrops and get some rest,” warned Ogawa, “or this won’t be your final checkup.”

  “All right, I will,” promised the doctor. As the two women continued to discuss her treatment, Picard’s gaze drifted to the fourth bed, where an unknown Antosian lay in a stasis tent, unmoving. His sculpted hair, which was seldom out of place on any self-respecting Antosian, was a rat’s nest, a far cry from the beautiful asymmetrical waves his race preferred. All this mayhem, plus the loss of Ensign Wapot, to bring a dying man back from a haunted ship.

  On the fifth bed reclined a patient who was having his surgery performed by the chief engineer, Geordi La Forge. Picard slipped away from Beverly to check on Data’s progress. “Will he live, Mr. La Forge?”

  [36] “Yes, sir,” answered the engineer as he worked. “But this is only a temporary fix; when we have more time I want to replace that lateral servo amplifier. He was lucky.”

  Data frowned curiously at his friend. “A wound like this, and you would consider me lucky?”

  “Lucky compared to what could have happened to you,” answered La Forge. “It could have been worse.”

  “No, a type-3 phaser rifle on setting four would have produced an identical wound on any part of my anatomy,” answered Data with certainty. “It could have been in a different place, but it could not have been worse.” He cocked his head and added, “In fact, it could not have been in a different place, since my reaction speed is always identical, as is the aiming and firing ability of the static sentry device.”

  “Okay, Data, I give up,” said Geordi with a laugh. “This wound could not be worse, and it was meant to be.” With a cauterizing wand, he closed the incision in Data’s upper arm.

  “I’m not sure it was meant to be,” said Picard with a scowl. “I’d like to know how it happened.”

  Data gave a concise report, filled with wonders even when told in the android’s literal style. When he finished, Data glanced at the Antosian in the bed to his left. “Perhaps he could tell you why it happened, Captain, but I cannot. Although his efforts at self-defense endangered our party, they were certainly justified. To ascertain what happened to the Barcelona would require going over crew logs, computer records, and video logs without any guarantee of success. Unfortunately, the Barcelona is an unsafe place in which to work, as the anomalies we witnessed are swift-moving and lethal.”

  “Not to mention the radiation,” said a voice. Picard turned to see Beverly Crusher standing beside him, apparently finished with her examination. She gazed thoughtfully at the injured Antosian in the stasis field and vowed, “I’m going to keep him alive until we get to a starbase.”

  “I’m sorry to say that may be a while, Doctor. I’m not going to tow [37] the Barcelona anywhere near a population center,” said Picard. “We’ll keep it right here until we find out more about it. Data, can’t we access the Barcelona’s records remotely?”

  “Yes, sir, but breaking their security safeguards and accessing the computer will require approximately one hour of work on the Barcelona’s bridge. Longer if the computer is damaged. The final entity we encountered is able to pass through solid matter, and all of them moved with considerable speed. Standard shields and weaponry are ineffective against them.”

  “We can all testify to that,” said Beverly, motioning to the beds filled with wounded. “Our injured will recover, given time.” She gazed intently at the captain, her Irish green eyes looking more weary than usual. “I’m not so sure about the Antosian. He’s not responding to treatment, and he’s too weak for any experimental treatments.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Picard gravely. “That ship is like a booby trap, and we have to guard it. I’m going to ask Starfleet to let us stay here until we answer some questions about the Barcelona. And your patient.”

  “I’ve got one answer,” said a voice. They turned to see Dr. Pelagof, seated at a computer console in the corner. The Tellarite rose to his feet and strode toward the stasis tent, his large stomach leading the way. “I’ve identified him—Lieutenant Raynr Sleven. There were only two Antosians on board the Barcelona, and the other was female.”

  “Were they related?” asked Crusher.

  “No, not according to records,” answered the Tellarite. “As for his treatment, I’ve been thinking about something. The Antosians pioneered a drastic process called cellular metamorphosis, which we’re unable to use on most species because of the side effects. But he might be able to withstand it. Offhand, I believe that’s the only thing that will save him.”

  “I only know the theory,” said Crusher uncertainly. “I’ve never done it.”

  “I have,” said Lieutenant Ogawa, stepping into the [38] conversational circle. “I assisted when I was fresh out of school, in the last clinical trial on humans. They were all terminal cases.”

  “And what were the results?” asked Beverly.

  “Same as always. Great recovery rates, but unacceptable mental problems, among other things.”

  “Excuse me,” asked Picard. “What are the full side effects of cellular metamorphosis?”

  Everyone looked to Ogawa. “It cures anything,” she answered, “probably even systemic failure from unidentified radiation poisoning. We didn’t know anything about it until a hundred years ago, when the Antosians treated a certain Captain Garth.”

  “Garth of Izar,” said Picard with awe in his voice. “He went mad—”

  “And was able to shape-shift, impersonate other people,” replied the nurse. “Spontaneous postmorphosis syndrome is unusual, but it occurs in around twenty percent of patients who undergo cellular metamorphosis, in all species. It’s impossible for humans to have the power to shape-shift without having mental problems, and spontaneous postmorphosis really speeds up our metabolism, causing us to age rapidly. I wouldn’t consider it for a human, but an Antosian—”

  All eyes turned to the still figure in the stasis tent, who already looked like a body in a shroud.

  Dr. Crusher gazed at the vital signs projected above the patient’s bed and frowned. “We can keep him in stasis for now, but his cells will continue to slowly degenerate. We could try this procedure, but not if we’re hit with any more injuries.”

  “I’ll try not to send any more of the crew your way,” said Picard with a thin smile. “I believe Data will be the only one going back to the Barcelona. We also need to have a service of some kind for Ensign Wapot. I assume that all of you who were there believe his disappearance to be permanent?”

  Ogawa nodded quickly, and Beverly nodded more slowly. Data sat up in bed, with a quizzical look on his face. “We do not have enough information to answer that question. However, if you are looking for [39] a ‘gut’ instinct based on our visual observation ... no, he is not coming back.”

  “Okay,” said Crusher, gazing wistfully at Captain Picard, “you’ll schedule a funeral, and I’ll schedule a procedure.”

  “It’s ironic,”
said a voice behind them. The crowd in the middle of sickbay now all turned to look at Geordi La Forge.

  “What is ironic?” asked Data.

  Geordi’s brow furrowed above his pale bionic eyes. “Cellular metamorphosis ... it’s one of the processes we identified in the Genesis matrix. The Genesis emitter couldn’t work without it.”

  four

  Prylar Yorka stood impatiently in the drizzling rain outside the rusted corrugated warehouse, waiting to get in. The Bajoran monk felt exposed in the blackness of the rainy night, even though two loyal acolytes stood at his side. That was mainly because of the object he clutched in his shivering arms—the box given him by the spirit of Kai Opaka. Although he still had no idea what it was—and was afraid to open it—he was certain it had great power. In his fantasies, he even imagined it was one of the missing Orbs of the Prophets—perhaps an Orb no one knew about.

  Despite the empowering presence of the object, this was very discourteous treatment, forcing him to stand out here in the rain. Yorka understood the necessity of privacy—he was certain that the authorities of Torga IV were looking for him, as were the Romulan assassins. But why not let him stand where it was dry? This whole process of flight had been much more difficult than he anticipated. There was a restriction on travel, a shortage of ships, and a long, official waiting list for departures.

  It had taken begging and outright blackmail for the former vedek [41] to secure passage for the three of them and their luggage. Plus they had lost a whole day, most of it spent in hiding. That was another humbling aspect of this misadventure.

  Still it will be worth it, Yorka told himself as he clutched the case to his ample torso. Everything in my life has been leading up to this! Yorka heard some scuffling on the sidewalk, and he and his small entourage whirled around with alarm. The Bajorans were ready to bolt into the darkness, until they saw an unprepossessing figure with big ears and a shiny skull cap come splashing through the puddles.