Yorka peered curiously at the approaching stranger, for it was not a stranger but someone he had met before. Yes, the night the kai had come to him with her gift, this little Ferengi had been in the temple, with his three wives. What was he doing here?
The Ferengi grinned, obviously recognizing him, too. “Ah, Prylar Yorka, I see that we have the same idea. I don’t blame you for getting away—after that fracas at your temple.”
“Chellac, isn’t it?” asked the monk. “When I last saw you, you were in difficult circumstances.”
“I took your advice, and I thought about the rules you quoted me.” The Ferengi smiled blissfully, showing an array of jagged teeth. “You saved me, Prylar Yorka. In time, I’ll recover my losses, and there’s plenty of money to be made in a disaster of this scope. Opportunity is everywhere! Many people think I’m dead, which is always useful. I’m eternally grateful for your wisdom, Prylar.”
“I’m glad I helped,” said the Bajoran. “Where are your lovely wives?”
He shrugged. “Well, that’s how I got out of my circumstances. I looked around to see what I had of value, and all I had were the clothes on my back and my wives. I hated to lose them, but sometimes you must divest in order to gain. Now let me ask you something: Why are you standing out here in the rain?”
Boldly, the Ferengi stepped up to the metal door and banged loudly, causing Yorka to cringe from the noise. A small window on [42] the door slid open, and two beady eyes peered out. “It will be a few minutes!” growled a voice.
“No, it won’t be!” snapped Chellac. “We are paying customers—paying exorbitant prices—and it is inexcusably stupid to keep people waiting when they are trying to give you money! A robber could come by and steal our money before you have a chance to steal it. Did you ever think of that?”
The little window slammed shut, but they could hear bolts being drawn and latches clacking open. Chellac folded his arms and looked disgustedly at the Bajorans. “In a tragedy, even the worst businessman can make money. Terrible.”
Finally the door creaked open, and a beefy hand loomed out of the darkness to usher them inside. They stepped into a vast warehouse that featured four pools of light and handfuls of people in far-flung corners. The only light in their vicinity came from a single portable light stick. In one pool of illumination, a short line of people waited to step onto a single-person transporter platform, which was powered by numerous gel packs strung behind it like the tentacles of some ocean creature.
“Be quiet,” cautioned the doorman in a raspy voice. “The group ahead of you is still leaving.” To emphasize his point, the beefy guard stepped into the dim pool of light and glowered at them with a pale, weathered face. From his dress and accent, Yorka deduced that he was Angosian.
“How much are you paying for all those gel-packs?” asked Chellac.
“What do you mean, how much am I paying?” The brutish Angosian frowned at him.
“Just what I said. You must use a ton of those power packs trying to get around the official waiting list. Moreover, you shouldn’t be in this building, we both know that. So you’re probably paying too much for power. Besides, those Starfleet packs are junk—they leak all over, or mutate into weird biomass. Now if you had Ferengi gel-packs—or better yet, Orion gel-packs—you could double your output for half the price.”
[43] Prylar Yorka tuned out the rest of their conversation. He had noticed that in one of the pools of light there was a replicator, and he wondered whether it was also for hire. “You stay here,” he whispered to his two acolytes. “Stand in the shadows, so they won’t see I’m missing.”
While the doorman was occupied, Yorka slipped into the darkness and ambled across an expanse of dusty floor until he reached the next lit area, where two hulking Centaurians sat around a replicator. The kiosk-sized device looked as if it had been yanked from an office wall, with bits of plaster still clinging to it.
“Need something for your trip?” asked one of them. “This here’s a tool replicator, but we’ve programmed more articles into it. No food, though.”
Yorka held out his gleaming metal box. “Can you replicate this?”
“You want us to duplicate your luggage?” asked the Centaurian doubtfully.
“Yes,” answered Yorka. “Contents and all, without opening it, without saving the pattern. Can you do that?”
“It will cost you,” said the vendor. “Without knowing what’s in there, we can’t guarantee an exact duplicate.”
“Would you guarantee it, if I opened it up?” asked Yorka.
“No, probably not.” They quickly arrived at a price, because Yorka didn’t want to negotiate. The meager savings he had amassed from the funds which floated through the temple were of no concern to him now. He didn’t think he would need money, because he was going to be exalted by his people.
When Yorka received the replicate, he shoved a small piece of putty into one of its narrow hinges. It was a small thing, not likely to be noticed by anyone else, but the monk would know which was the fake. He still didn’t know if the new device would function as well as the old one, because he didn’t know what the original did. Until he was sure he was perfectly safe from his pursuers, he couldn’t risk inspecting his prize.
There was a good chance that it would do something which drew [44] attention, so he’d go someplace isolated, even more isolated than Torga IV.
Yorka returned to his traveling companions and handed the fake box to one of them before the Angosian guard noticed him. The big doorman scowled. “Where were you?”
“I took a moment of solitude to pray,” answered Yorka.
The Angosian grunted under his breath. “Well, you’re next. Time to pay up, but only half the price you were quoted.”
“Only half?” asked Yorka puzzledly, reaching for his purse.
“Professional courtesy,” said the Ferengi, nudging him in the ribs. “We’re doing business with these folks now. I gave them our best discount, too ... on the gel-packs.”
“Of course,” answered Yorka with a jovial laugh. “I forget that my partner here can never go anywhere without conducting business. Sometimes I’m content just to enjoy the trip.”
“That’s why I’m the salesman, and you’re the engineer,” replied Chellac with a snaggle-toothed grin.
After they had paid their fare and were walking toward the transporter platform, Chellac nudged the Bajoran again. “You know,” he whispered, “I will be your partner.”
Yorka blinked in surprise. “I ... I don’t need a partner.”
“Oh, I think you do, because you have something of value.” He pointed to the box. “You had one of those, and now you’ve got two. These thieves wouldn’t replicate a dead vole for less than top price, so you must have something of value. Considering what happened in your temple, I’d say people are willing to kill for it.”
“I appreciate the discount you got us,” said Yorka, feeling possessive of his prize. “But this is none of your business.”
The Ferengi shrugged. “It’s a long flight to the Meldrar System. You have time to get to know me better and realize that you do need me.”
* * *
[45] A statuesque, dark-haired Vulcan woman of indeterminate age turned and regarded Admiral Nechayev coldly. “Can I help you with something? Are you looking for another room?”
“No, I’m in the right room,” answered the admiral, stepping cautiously into the semiprivate quarters of two comatose Deltans. There weren’t very many people who intimidated Nechayev, but this Vulcan might be one of them. “You are Teska, the expert called by Dr. Heshreef?”
“Yes. And you are obviously a patient here.”
“I am,” answered the human, gingerly touching her face, which still tingled from the procedure. She didn’t know or care how it looked. “I’m also an admiral, Alynna Nechayev, and this is a Starfleet hospital.”
“I requested privacy,” said Teska.
Nechayev sunk into a chair with a sigh. “You have a ve
ry interesting record. Ambassador Spock is your uncle, and you spent your younger years on Earth. From an early age, you showed an aptitude for the mind-meld, and you’re a highly regarded priestess back home. Yet you still work with us. The number of commendations you have is extraordinary.”
“You left out that I am married to a Romulan,” she remarked dryly.
“But how long has it been since you’ve seen him? Six years?”
“I see him every seven years,” answered the Vulcan matter-of-factly. “He knows when to come home.”
“I’m sure,” said Nechayev, her new face blushing slightly. “Has anyone told you?.... Our information shows that Hasmek may be dead.”
Teska raised an eyebrow. “Then I will have to take a new mate when the time comes. Is this a job interview, Admiral? I hope not, because I already have a job, which is to communicate with these injured officers. Now, if you will excuse me, you have to leave.”
Nechayev pointed around the room. “There are devices everywhere, making a video log of this. I could walk down the hallway [46] and watch you, but I was hoping you would let me stay. I promise not to move from here or say a word. Please, it would mean a great deal to me.”
The Vulcan nodded. “Very well, Admiral. But please do not interfere with me, even if I appear distressed.”
“All right.”
Teska stepped between the two beds containing the sick Deltans, and she pulled back the tents to look at them, one by one. “Since you are here, Admiral, what can you tell me about these two?”
“They were part of a work crew at the Talan Shipyard, which was near the path of the Genesis Wave. We evacuated the place and ordered all the ships pressed into service, but there was one running behind schedule. As the wave approached, we realized it would miss the shipyard, so the crew was allowed to stay behind to finish the work. When they were found, they were as you see them.”
Teska nodded her regal head and knelt on the ground between the two beds. She slipped a hand under the protective covering of each patient and placed long fingers at precise spots on their faces, melding with both at once. The Vulcan’s head jerked back as if she were slapped in the face, and she writhed in apparent agony. Nechayev was on the edge of her seat, ready to help, when she noticed that the Vulcan’s hands never lost contact with the comatose patients. Teska was still in control.
Finally the Vulcan slumped forward, maintaining contact with both the Deltans. She looked drained but content, as if she had conquered whatever demons she had initially faced.
Teska remained in a kind of trance with her eyes closed as she cried, “The fear ... the utter dread! What are they? Where are they! Here they come again, with that blinding beam. Shields ... phasers ... not working. Death, be merciful. Evacuate! Into the pods. Getting weaker ... can’t escape. They’re gone for now ... Another night ... just hang on.”
She swallowed hard and bowed her head. “We want to die. We [47] can’t see anything but horrors that shouldn’t exist. They haunt even our death memories. Can’t live ... in this existence.”
With a grunt, Teska pulled her hands away from the Deltans and slumped forward onto the floor. Nechayev was again tempted to help her, but she remembered the Vulcan’s admonition not to intercede.
Finally Teska stood and composed herself, turning back into the regal Vulcan who must look splendid in her ceremonial robes. “That was difficult,” she said hoarsely.
“Why?” asked the admiral, rising to her feet and stepping closer.
“Because the attack was very frightening and brutal.”
“Attack?” asked Nechayev with concern. “I didn’t hear about any signs of an attack.”
“That was how they perceived it,” replied Teska, looking back at the patients. “To them, it was an attack. At any rate, they were not performing any tasks or working with any material that might have caused the poisoning. It came from an external source—from a kind of shining rift—along with the monsters.”
“Monsters?”
“Yes,” said the Vulcan dispassionately. “Quite horrible monsters. They were bad enough to frighten one to death. Human mythos is full of such creatures, but these are not humans. In fact, Deltans are not overly given to fantasy and wild leaps of imagination. To scare these two as they have been scared—it is beyond my ability to describe how it happened. Still I will file a report. These are quite literal monsters, not figurative ones.”
“Monsters did this to them?” asked the admiral, frowning at the comatose patients. “And fright?”
“Yes, and letting them die would be merciful,” added the Vulcan.
The door chimed, and the admiral called, “Come!”
A young lieutenant walked in, brandishing a padd in his hand. “Excuse me, Admiral, but we’ve just received urgent orders for you.”
“Teska, please don’t leave yet,” said Nechayev, motioning to the [48] Vulcan to stay. She took the padd and nodded to the lieutenant. “But you can leave.”
“Yes, Sir.” He hurried off.
The admiral frowned as she read the missive from Starfleet Command. “Hmmm, they only busted me down one star, so I’m still an admiral. But I have a ship, the Sequoia, and a destination. Teska, would you consider shipping out with me as a mission specialist?”
“What is the mission?” asked the Vulcan.
“To help us clean up Lomar, the homeworld of the species who unleashed the Genesis Wave on us,” answered Nechayev. “The enemy is gone, but they left behind extensive underground facilities. The Romulans ransacked the place before we got there, but we may still find clues to study. That’s not what I need you for, though.”
The admiral began to pace the hospital room, feeling the tension in her own jaw. “One of our tasks is to revive the humanoid slaves left in suspended animation—and question them, if possible. There are hundreds of them, and I hear that most are very weak. Many were destroyed during the fighting. It’s been difficult just to keep them alive.”
“Hence the need for mind-melds.”
“Yes,” said Nechayev with a sigh. “It’s similar to what you’ve been doing here, only on a bigger scale. Other Vulcans are already on site, helping us.”
She glanced back at the two Deltans, who were as quiet as corpses. “Death is still on duty, it seems. I’m not saying this will be pleasant work, but it’s absolutely necessary.”
“When do we leave?” asked Teska.
“You’ll go, then?” replied the admiral, happily surprised. “That’s excellent. I want to get settled in as the captain of the Sequoia and take her on a test flight. Shall we say thirty-two hours from now?”
“That will give me time to pack and prepare my report,” answered the tall Vulcan. “Good day, Admiral.” Teska sauntered out of the room, apparently unaffected by the raw emotions and horrific images [49] she had experienced during the mind-meld. Nechayev wondered whether anyone could really see what she had described without losing her sanity. If anyone could, it would be that icy Vulcan.
Teska will be invaluable, decided the admiral, because we need to put panic behind us and think logically. Now there’s just one more specialist I need to recruit.
The Genesis Wave had passed, but in its wake lay destruction, danger, and secrets, now scattered to the winds like confetti. How much had gotten out about the Genesis technology? How much did the Romulans know? Nechayev could feel the peril as surely as she could feel her altered face still tingling from the surgery.
Lieutenant Alyssa Ogawa staggered wearily into her quarters, surprised that all the lights were on. Even though it was the equivalent of the middle of the night, little Suzi’s voice rang out, “Mommy!”
The six-year-old came charging around the corner from the sitting area, and she plowed into Alyssa’s legs, gripping her in a fierce and happy hug. She was followed by the ship’s counselor, Deanna Troi, wiping sleepiness from her eyes.
Ogawa hugged her dark-haired, freckled daughter, the freckles reminding her of Andrew. “Are you all right? I
thought you’d be asleep.” She looked quizzically at Counselor Troi.
The Betazoid shrugged. “She contacted me a few hours ago, said she couldn’t sleep, and that you were going to be gone for a long time. So I came down here.”
“I’m sorry,” said Ogawa, “I checked on her from sickbay, and she looked like she was asleep.”
“I can pretend to be asleep,” admitted Suzi, “but sometimes I’m not.”
“Well, I got a good nap.” Troi stretched her arms luxuriantly. “And I got some reading done before that.”
“I owe you one,” said Ogawa, standing and holding her daughter’s hand. “The procedure went longer than expected.”
[50] “How did it go?” asked the Betazoid.
Alyssa opened her mouth to answer, but Suzi piped up, “My mom says that cellular metamufus is going to drive her patient crazy.”
“I hope not,” said the nurse, “but it’s a possibility. On the other hand, we’ve given him a good chance to live, much better than he had before. Since we used a process perfected on Antosians, I’m hopeful he’ll avoid the worst side effects. It shouldn’t take long to find out.”
The counselor moved toward the door. “I’ll have to stop by sickbay to see him. Will you two make your appointment at seventeen hundred hours?”
“Yes, we’ll be there,” Ogawa assured her. “Thanks again.”
After the door shut behind Deanna Troi, the mother turned to her daughter, who was beaming as if nothing had happened. “You told me you could sleep by yourself,” she said softly.
“Well, when I’m asleep, I can sleep by myself,” answered Suzi. “But when I’m awake, I don’t like to be awake by myself. After Daddy comes home, you can work as long as you want.”
“That’s right,” said Alyssa, kneeling down and hugging her daughter before she could see the tears welling in her eyes. “When Daddy comes home, it will be a lot easier.” She wiped her eyes quickly before she pulled away from Suzi.
STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book Three Page 5
