STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book Three

by John Vornholt

  “Sounds good to me,” answered Chellac. “I’ll keep them distracted while you do that.” He smiled at his human accomplice. “Are you sure you don’t have any Ferengi blood in you!”

  “I was raised in an orphanage,” she answered, “but I don’t think so.”

  “Would you like some children with Ferengi blood?” Chellac sidled closer to the attractive human and batted his eyelashes under his thick brow.

  “No, thank you,” replied Cassie, pushing the amorous Ferengi away. “I just want lots of latinum.”

  “Ah, a woman after my own heart. I have no doubt that you will be a great success in life.”

  “I still don’t see how we’re going to make money from this,” complained Cassie.

  [112] “You leave that to me, like I leave the flying to you.” Chellac gazed out the viewport of the shuttlecraft. “Ah, I think our first passenger has arrived.”

  “Is he alone?” asked Cassie, “like he’s supposed to be?”

  “Yes.” The Ferengi and the human peered out the window at the fog-shrouded gangplank and could see a lone figure striding briskly toward them. Golden-hued street lamps cut through the darkness, but it was still impossible to see the details of their passenger’s clothing and rank. As he approached, Cassie opened the shuttlecraft hatch, and they waited expectantly for their guest to enter.

  He stuck his head in first, and it was a noble head with a thicket of gray hair atop a deeply lined face that was creased into a smile. The notches on the Bajoran’s nose looked as prominent as the ridges of a Klingon’s forehead. He brandished his invitation. “Hello, is this shuttle to see the newest Orb?”

  “It is indeed!” crowed Chellac, taking the invitation and motioning their visitor inside. The Ferengi glanced at the name on the back of the parchment and looked up with surprise. “Ocman Danriv?”

  “Yes. You sound surprised.” The friendly Bajoran stepped into the craft and handed the Ferengi his luggage.

  “Well, I didn’t expect Bajor’s greatest poet to arrive before anybody else,” answered Chellac.

  “And why not? Not all artists are habitually late, you know. I happen to pride myself on being very punctual.” He strode to the back of the six-passenger craft and took a seat in the last row.

  “Of course,” answered Chellac, “no offense intended. My name is Chellac, and this is our pilot, Cassie Jackson.”

  “Just to point out the obvious,” said the poet, “but neither one of you looks like a former vedek.”

  “We’re not. We’re—”

  “Another one coming,” said Cassie, pointing out the viewport.

  Conversation ended, and they waited expectantly as their second passenger walked cautiously down the gangplank, carrying a small [113] bag under her arm. This was an older female wearing the regal rust-colored robes of the Bajoran clergy. With a stern look on her round face, she stepped into the shuttlecraft and crossed her arms. “This had better not be a joke,” she grumbled.

  “I can assure you, Vedek Zain, it is no joke,” Chellac assured her. “Your invitation?”

  With a scowl, she handed over the slip of parchment and surveyed the interior of the shuttlecraft. “Oh, we have an entertainer onboard,” she said dryly.

  The poet smiled. “I’m not half as entertaining as the Vedek Assembly.”

  “Let me check those invitations,” said Cassie, breaking the tension somewhat. Chellac handed them over, and the pilot made a careful show of inserting them into her trash receptacle. Vedek Zain pointedly took a seat in the first row, far removed from the poet in the rear. She stuffed her bag under her seat.

  “What’s this?” said Cassie. “Now there’s a whole group out there.”

  The Ferengi peered out the window, and he could see the silhouettes of a large party on the gangplank. One of them broke away and ran toward the shuttlecraft, carrying a weapon in his hand. Chellac almost shut the door, but he decided it was best to maintain a brave front. A moment later, a young soldier stuck his head in the doorway and, without saying a word, scrutinized all of them. Then he shouldered his weapon and dashed back to the group.

  “Well, so much for secrecy,” observed Cassie. Chellac gave her a slight smile.

  “That’s got to be the military,” said Ocman Danriv. “You don’t expect them just to enter an unknown shuttlecraft, do you? They’re not as brave as civilians like us.”

  “Or as foolish,” muttered Vedek Zain.

  Now two figures broke off from the clutch of soldiers and walked toward the shuttlecraft. One of them was a stiff-backed male in a gray uniform, and the other was a short female with a pronounced [114] limp. With relief, Chellac noticed that the squad of soldiers retreated into the fog.

  “General Mira,” said Chellac, meeting them at the door. “And Minister Gatryk, it is a pleasure to welcome you to our craft. Your invitations, please.”

  The haughty general looked snidely at the Ferengi as he drew the parchment from his breast pocket. “You have a lot of gall summoning us here with this cryptic nonsense.”

  “Cryptic?” said the poet in the rear. “On the contrary, General, that invitation is a model of suspenseful writing, promising a great deal but delivering precious few details. It’s guaranteed to make one investigate further, as proven by your presence.”

  “Why, thank you,” said Chellac proudly. “Minister Gatryk, your invitation?”

  The short female fumbled in the pockets of her brown suit for several seconds, then she seemed to remember something. With a smile, she reached into her luggage, pulled out the invitation, and handed it over. “I must say that anyone who spares me two days of sitting in the Chamber of Ministers has my gratitude.”

  “Thank you, Minister.” Chellac studied the invitations for a moment, then he handed them to Cassie for her bogus processing. “May I stow your luggage?”

  “I’ll keep mine,” answered the general, who promptly sat in the front row beside Vedek Zain. “So they roped you into this, too?”

  “I’m afraid so,” replied the religious figure.

  Minister Gatryk limped to the rear of the craft and sat beside the poet, and the two of them exchanged greetings and small talk, while Chellac stowed what luggage he was given.

  “I have many questions,” said the vedek.

  The Ferengi smiled pleasantly. “And all will be answered in due time.”

  “I only have one question,” said the general. “When do we leave?”

  “We await one more passenger,” answered Chellac, peering out [115] the window. “But we won’t wait long for him, because he may have difficulty getting here.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because he’s a wanted criminal. His name is Bakus.”

  “Bakus, the Maquis leader?” asked General Mira in alarm. He jumped to his feet. “This becomes more ludicrous with every passing moment.”

  “Please look around you, General,” begged Chellac. “Every segment of Bajoran society is represented on this craft. Except for one—the rebels, the criminals, the outcasts. And they’re as big a part of Bajor as any of you. They always have been. Bakus is known and loved among those people, and we have to tell them about this discovery, too.”

  The general wagged his finger at the Ferengi. “All I’ve got to say is—this had better be good.”

  Chellac laughed nervously. “Well, you know how the Orbs are. Good or bad, they’re never boring.”

  “Don’t speak lightly of the Orbs of the Prophets,” warned Vedek Zain, her dark eyes flashing with anger. “And I agree with the general, because if this is some kind of trick—”

  “Someone’s coming,” said Cassie, leaning forward to peer into the fog. “One person, alone.”

  Conversation on the shuttlecraft mercifully stopped as all five of them waited for the lone figure to emerge from the fog and approach the open hatch. He was wearing a simple monk’s robe and a hood which covered his face, making it impossible to identify him. Without a word, the new arrival stepped into the shutt
lecraft, and Chellac quickly closed the hatch behind him. He couldn’t give a definite reason, but there was something about this last passenger that made him nervous.

  When the guest pushed back his hood to reveal his face, there were several gasps of surprise. It wasn’t another Bajoran, but a distinguished-looking Vulcan with a smattering of gray in his straight black hair. Slung over his shoulder was a large knapsack, made from [116] the same crude material as his robe. From a pocket on the knapsack, he pull the invitation and presented it to Chellac.

  “I am here to represent Bakus,” he announced. “He sends his regrets.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry he couldn’t make it,” said the Ferengi, taking the slip of parchment. He handed it to Cassie, who once again pretended to scan it. “But it’s understandable.”

  “Quite understandable,” answered the newest arrival.

  “Do you have a name?” asked the vedek snidely.

  “Yes, but you could not pronounce it.” He motioned to the two empty seats in the middle row. “May I be seated?”

  “Please do,” answered Chellac. “Can I take your bag?”

  “No.” Without another word, the mysterious Vulcan sat in front of Ocman Danriv.

  “You are a Vulcan, aren’t you?” asked the poet.

  “I am.”

  “So, you can’t lie.”

  “That is correct. Instead of lying, I am more than likely to say nothing.”

  “Very commendable,” said the poet with an amused smile.

  “Listen, can we go now?” asked Cassie, starting the prelaunch sequence on her instrument panel.

  “Sure.” Chellac took a seat beside the Vulcan as Cassie asked permission from shuttlebay operations to take off. Five minutes later, the shuttlecraft lifted off the pad and streaked away into the night sky of Bajor.

  Everything seemed fine to Chellac until his pilot blurted a colorful swearword in the Terran tongue. “We’ve got a military ship following us,” she complained.

  “General,” said the Ferengi, “could you please tell your boys to back off?”

  Huffily, General Mira crossed his arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  [117] “Okay, Cassie, let’s transport the general back down to the planet,” said Chellac. “The Bajoran military can learn about the Orb of Life from the news reports.”

  With a scowl, the general rose to his feet and went to the empty copilot’s seat. “I’ll send them the code to withdraw.” He worked the board for a minute, then returned to his seat.

  After a few more minutes, Cassie announced, “They’re gone. All right, everybody, get ready to go to warp.”

  Chellac looked around at the somber, frightened faces. “Come on, cheer up. You’re not going to be disappointed by this trip, I guarantee it.”

  “If you’ve really discovered a new Orb,” said Minister Gatryk, “you’re going to be more renowned than any of us.”

  “I’m not the boss here,” answered the Ferengi. “Save your accolades for the one who deserves them.”

  In a brilliant flash, the six-passenger shuttlecraft shot into warp drive with the cream of Bajoran society on board, having no clue where they were headed. Such was the drawing power of the Orbs of the Prophets, thought Chellac; even a fake Orb was better than none.

  ten

  Teska almost lost count of how many mind-melds she attempted on the slaves hanging in suspended animation in the underground chambers of Lomar. Even restricting herself to those who seemed relatively healthy, according to tricorder readings, it was an exercise in futility. She found brain activity—subconscious functions such as breathing and heartbeat—plus a few basic emotions. Ironically, most of their emotions were an odd amalgam of contentment and happiness, although the subjects were one step away from death. The Vulcan attributed this to the aftereffects of the infestation, even if the moss creatures themselves were dead. What she encountered wasn’t just a dulling of senses and memories but a decimation of them.

  In three of her initial subjects, there were memory fragments, but they seemed false and removed from reality, like half-remembered dreams. She found memories of loved ones, often long dead but inexplicably alive again. There were fragments of familiar places—hometowns, resorts, beloved starships, and favorite work environments. Since the slaves had been deluded for years, there was [119] virtually nothing real for her to latch onto. Unlike normal mind-melds, everything she found seemed untrustworthy.

  Of course, these weren’t the ideal circumstances—performing a mind-meld while perched atop a ladder with one’s hand inserted into a gooey stasis bag covered with vines and moss. But the Vulcan persevered with the knowledge that she had hundreds of potential subjects. With even the lowest probability rate of success, one from all these unfortunate victims was bound to have a functional mind.

  Her breakthrough came on the twenty-second subject. It was a human female, which made sense because she had always felt strong identification with humans due to her early upbringing. As soon as Teska inserted her hand into the slimy innards of the bag and touched the face of the blond woman, she felt a slight shock. That was a good sign, yet she steeled herself for another failure.

  “Begin recording,” Teska told her colleagues, the human medical officer, Franklin Oswald, and the Tiburonian biologist, Pokrifa. She ignored the glances they gave one another, intimating that all of this was pointless.

  Getting a good grip on the ladder with her free hand and steadying her legs on the rung, Teska closed her eyes and touched the woman’s face. As soon as she made contact, the Vulcan felt a ripple of pain and longing, which was different from what she’d felt with any of the previous subjects. It showed critical thinking, and she instantly tried to capitalize on this by telling the young woman where she was. For the sake of her associates recording the conversation, she related their thoughts aloud:

  “You are being held prisoner.”

  I am!

  “Do not be alarmed. You are safe now.”

  I can’t feel my body!

  “You are in suspended animation, and our minds are melding.”

  I’m scared.

  [120] “That is understandable, but I am here to help you. We need information to help you. Where do you think you are?”

  On my ship ... the U.S.S. Tempest.

  “In reality, you are in an underground facility where you have been tricked into working as a slave for enemies of the Federation. I am a Vulcan—I cannot lie to you. My name is Teska. Who are you?”

  Linda ... Linda Feeney. I feel you’re telling the truth.

  “Linda, this is crucial. What is your job here? What project were you most recently working on?”

  Engineer, second class. I’m working on the emitter.

  “What emitter?” With her eyes closed, Teska couldn’t see her two colleagues move closer, but in her heightened state she could sense them.

  The portable emitter ... the small one.

  “The Genesis emitter?”

  The Life Giver ... the Tree Maker. I’m scared—I can’t feel my legs!

  Teska sent her subject waves of unemotional tranquility, hoping it would calm her. After a few moments, Linda Feeney seemed to relax and reopen her mind.

  “You say there is a small version of the Life Giver?”

  Yes, for tests. Also for the back-up plan.

  “How many of these devices did you make?”

  A few ... I saw others working on them.

  “And where are the portable devices?”

  They’re in the laboratory. One is in the field ... Torga IV. Can you save me?

  “We will try,” answered Teska with a nod. “Did something recently happen to you that was unusual?”

  Yes, I got sick. They took me to sickbay and treated me. I was lonely there.

  “You are now among friends, and we will care for you.”

  [121] Tony ... he said he loved me! Is Tony all right?

  “Unknown. You must rest now, Linda, because you need your stren
gth to get well.”

  Thank you ... Teska.

  With a grunt, the Vulcan broke off the mind-meld, letting Linda Feeney drift back into her troubled slumber. In a swoon, Teska almost fell off the ladder, but Oswald caught her and held her in place until she could recover her balance and step down.

  “I think you’d better take a break,” suggested Oswald.

  “The way you talked—you were like two different people,” said Pokrifa with awe. “Can we believe her when she says there are portable Genesis devices?”

  “The mind-meld does not lie,” answered Teska, regaining her composure. “Also Dr. Carol Marcus was known to have a portable device, which she used to create the Genesis Cavern on the Regula asteroid. So we know it is possible.”

  The Vulcan glanced up at the human engineer, whose body was swinging slightly in the musty air. “Apparently, her illness caused the creatures to relinquish some of their control over her mind. I must inform Admiral Nechayev immediately. Make preparations to transport Linda Feeney to the hospital ship. Use appropriate caution, because she is invaluable.”

  “But we haven’t found any portable devices like the one you described,” said Pokrifa.

  Teska fixed her colleague with a baleful gaze. “But we were not the first ones here.”

  After hearing the Vulcan’s report, Admiral Nechayev frowned deeply and rose from the desk in her ready room. “This coincides with another report I received. The large moon of Meldrar I had sudden and inexplicable plant growth over twelve thousand square meters of land. And we’re talking about an arid wasteland. Nobody [122] knows anything about it, except that a shuttlecraft from the penal colony and a few passengers from a freighter are also missing.”

  “Starfleet should begin a massive investigation,” said Teska.

  The admiral scowled and swept a hand through her blond-gray hair. “Starfleet is strung out all over the quadrant, trying to find and rescue survivors of the Genesis Wave, plus investigating all these other strange occurrences—disappearances, radiation poisoning. Everyone considers this just one more bizarre event among hundreds.”