STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book Three

by John Vornholt

  “Can we investigate it?”

  “We already have an assignment,” answered Nechayev stiffly. “And it’s starting to pay off. But if the Romulans have gotten hold of Genesis emitters—” She didn’t need to finish the sentence.

  Instead the admiral sat back at her desk and fired up her computer terminal. “Engineer Feeney said there was a device out in the field. Where did she say they put it?”

  “A planet named Torga IV.”

  The admiral nodded and began working her board. Within a few seconds, she had brought up the earlier message. After rereading it, Nechayev sat back in her chair with a stricken look on her face.

  “The freighter which went to Meldrar I ... it came from Torga IV.”

  Teska cocked an eyebrow. “That is near Bajor, if memory serves me. We must cease operations here and go to investigate.”

  “You mean disobey our orders?” asked Nechayev with alarm. “We’ve got work to do here—lives to save.”

  Impassively, the Vulcan replied, “It is a logical assumption that unknown parties have a portable Genesis device and tested it on a moon. It is also a logical assumption that these unknown individuals obtained a shuttlecraft and have escaped, perhaps to go into hiding. They are not Romulans.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Romulans would not test the device in Federation space, where the results could be so easily identified.”

  [123] “No, I suppose not,” agreed Nechayev. She groaned and rubbed her eyes. “Talk about the cat being out of the bag.”

  “We must leave here and investigate,” insisted the Vulcan. “Any other information we would learn here is insignificant compared to this. The number of lives we could save pales in comparison to the number at risk. Even if we were to resuscitate every slave in suspended animation, none of them could confirm or deny that the Romulans have Genesis devices. We must assume they have them.”

  “They’ll deny it,” said the admiral.

  “Of course. They are known for being untruthful.”

  “You’re married to a Romulan,” said Nechayev, “do you have any contacts there?”

  Teska shook her head. “As you pointed out, the whereabouts of my mate are unknown, and I trust no other Romulans. We must investigate this ourselves, and do so immediately.”

  “I can’t do that,” muttered Nechayev, staring at her computer screen. “The best I can do is report all of this to Starfleet and ask for guidance. Until then, we proceed with our mission.”

  Teska replied, “You used a colorful human expression: ‘the cat is out of the bag.’ If I were to use a colorful human expression, it would be: ‘Nero fiddled while Rome burned.’ ”

  “You remind me a lot of your uncle,” grumbled Nechayev. “You’re dismissed.”

  With a nod, the beautiful Vulcan turned on her heel and marched out the door. Nechayev looked up from her desk, scowling, but she had to admit the truth: Teska was right. The trail might already be cold, but somebody had to get on it immediately. That couldn’t be the Sequoia unless she disobeyed direct orders and became one of those captains she often denigrated.

  It would shake the admiralty to their core when she told them that the Romulans had possession of Genesis, but there was little anyone could do about it, except to make urgent diplomatic inquiries. There was nothing she could do about it—not while she [124] orbited this dead planet, struggling to keep scores of brain-dead patients alive. For the first time in her life, Alynna Nechayev felt helpless.

  “What is this forsaken place?” asked Vedek Zain as she peered out the shuttlecraft window at a barren desert with various crumbling plateaus in the distance. Piloted by the young human, the small craft swooped downward into a landing approach.

  “Does it matter?” asked Chellac with a contented shrug. The five passengers looked at him suspiciously, except for the Vulcan, whose expression hadn’t changed in several hours of warp-speed flight. “Be thankful that we’re here,” added the Ferengi.

  He rose to his feet and slipped into the copilot’s seat beside Cassie Jackson. “Any sign of them?”

  “Right down there.” The pilot pointed at two specks and a glittering silver circle, which was a reflective tent pitched in the middle of the vast expanse of sand and shale.

  Chellac felt Ocman Danriv hovering over his shoulder. “For the dwelling of the Orb of Life,” said the poet, “this is an awfully lifeless place.”

  “All in good time,” answered the Ferengi. “Please return to your seat—we’ll be landing soon.”

  As they zoomed closer, the two specks on the ground turned into two Bajorans, a fat one and a thin one, who covered their eyes from the blowing sand as the shuttlecraft settled to the ground.

  “Good flying, Pilot,” said General Mira appreciatively as the engines whined down and the dust stopped blowing.

  “Thank you, General,” said Cassie with a smile. She popped the hatch, and the passengers rose to their feet, forming a line to exit.

  As each one stepped out of the shuttlecraft, he was greeted by a beaming Prylar Yorka. “Vedek Zain, it’s good to see you again!”

  [125] “Yorka!” she said with surprise. “I thought we sent you to one of the provinces after you refused to recognize Kai Winn.”

  “You did,” he replied magnanimously, “but I rose above my circumstances. And didn’t I turn out to be right about that fraud, Winn?”

  The vedek winced but said nothing as she stepped aside to let the next passenger out.

  “General Mira,” said Yorka, gripping the hand of the stiff-backed soldier. “We’ve never met, but I am Prylar Yorka.”

  “If you’ve brought us here under false pretenses—”

  “I haven’t,” Yorka assured him as he maneuvered the general aside. “Minister Gatryk, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  The small Bajoran with the limp peered curiously at their host. “We’ve met before?”

  “At the Vedek Assembly, when I was a member,” replied Yorka. “That was a few years ago.”

  “So you are the former vedek we were promised in the invitation?” asked Ocman Danriv from the hatchway.

  “None other.” The monk rushed to greet the poet. “I’ve been a fan of yours for as long as I can remember. I especially loved ‘Ode to the Prophets’ and The Soul of Gratitude.’ ”

  “Ah, those are old works,” said the poet dismissively. “You ought to read my latest, ‘Descent of the Pahwraiths.’ ”

  “Where I’ve been, I’m afraid I haven’t seen much recent literature,” said Yorka apologetically. He turned his attention to the hooded Vulcan emerging from the shuttlecraft. “I don’t know you, Sir.”

  “Nor should you,” he answered. “I am the representative of Bakus, who sends his regrets.”

  Yorka looked slightly disappointed, but he managed a smile. “And your name?”

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “Well, no, I suppose not,” answered the monk hesitantly.

  Chellac and Cassie stepped out of the craft and leaned against it [126] with their arms crossed. The Ferengi wanted to take over the presentation, but he knew this was Yorka’s show. When it came down to asking for cash and support, he would perform that onerous task. To him, that was the important part of the ceremony.

  “All right, Yorka,” said General Mira, “you’ve got us here. Now what?”

  The monk turned to his waiting acolyte and said, “Fetch the Orb.”

  The dour Bajoran nodded and hustled into the reflective tent. Now the five guests no longer looked so disdainful as they pressed forward to get their first look at a sacred relic. A moment later, the acolyte emerged, holding the familiar metal box in his hands. With reverence, he handed it to Prylar Yorka, who gripped the receptacle as if it contained gold-pressed latinum.

  “That doesn’t look like any Ark I’ve ever seen,” muttered Vedek Zain, perusing the gleaming metal box. “Although it is about the right size.”

  “Do we look at it one at a time?” asked
Minister Gatryk.

  “In private, I hope,” added the vedek.

  Yorka shook his head. “No, this isn’t the kind of Orb one gazes at in quiet contemplation. The Orb of Life is more of an active Orb, as you will see.”

  “May I inspect it?” asked General Mira.

  “No, but you may gaze in wonder at what it does.” Yorka walked several meters away from the shuttlecraft and the clutch of observers and set the box on the crusty sand. When he opened the door of the container, the general and the vedek pressed forward to see, and Yorka waved them back. “I wouldn’t get too close. You will be able to see just fine where you are.”

  “Hmmph!” snorted Vedek Zain, crossing her arms. “I have a feeling we’re about to see a parlor trick.”

  “I hope it’s not disappointing,” said the poet, Ocman. “I hate an anticlimax.”

  “You needn’t worry about that,” replied Chellac with a grin.

  [127] Yorka pressed the buttons, using his broad back to shield what he was doing from his inquisitive audience. When the beam shot from the other side, there were expressions of surprise, because Orbs of the Prophets did not usually behave like beamed weapons. When a blazing wall of green flame consumed the barren land, and the wind began to howl, while the sky darkened with furious clouds, the observers clustered together nervously. Within a few seconds, they had so much to watch that their heads swiveled back and forth like communication arrays gone mad.

  Although he had seen it before, Chellac gaped along with the others as the desolate wasteland erupted with sprawling, teeming life. Monstrous plants and vines shot into the air and crawled along the burning ground like the tentacles of a terrible beast. The swirling air smelled like a mixture of sulfur, blooming flowers, and decomposing filth. Minister Gatryk bent over and vomited, and Chellac fought the impulse to gag. All of them retreated from the hellish green flames and twisting, writhing thickets.

  “This is an abomination!” screamed the minister over the roar of the wind.

  “No, no, it’s beautiful!” insisted the poet, Ocman. “It’s fantastic!”

  “Magnificent!” yelled General Mira. “We must have it!”

  The Vulcan calmly pulled out a padd and began to take notes.

  With a satisfied grin on his face, Prylar Yorka walked back to join his guests. “Do you still think it’s a parlor trick, Vedek Zain?”

  She stared at him. “I’m not sure what it is ... but it warrants more study.”

  “Is that all you can say?” cried Ocman in disbelief. “With this, we could feed billions of starving people! We could turn a barren planet into a paradise. With this Orb, we can create life!”

  “Or destroy it,” said Minister Gatryk.

  The general stepped between her and Yorka. “What do you want for it?”

  “Ah, that’s where I come in!” said the Ferengi, jumping into the [128] conversation. “Let’s step into the shuttlecraft, where we can talk terms away from all this noise.”

  “No!” answered Ocman. “I want to keep watching it. I will write an epic poem immediately. By tomorrow, Yorka, all of Bajor will praise your name.”

  “As an Orb, it belongs to the religious establishment,” insisted Vedek Zain.

  “Not until I am returned to my rightful place in the Vedek Assembly,” warned Yorka.

  “We have immediate needs for cash,” said Chellac, getting back to the subject.

  “That, I can remedy.”

  Everyone turned to look at the Vulcan, as these were the first words he had spoken since refusing to introduce himself. He reached into the bag that never left his shoulder and pulled out a thick ingot of gold-pressed latinum, which he promptly handed to Chellac. “There is more where that came from.”

  The Ferengi smiled at the tall, noble Vulcan. “I think I like you best of all.”

  “A private word with you, Chellac,” said Yorka, motioning the Ferengi to follow him. The two of them walked away from the others, who were still awed by the explosive growth which was turning thousands of square meters into a rampant, otherworldly jungle.

  “So far, so good!” said the Ferengi, slipping the latinum ingot into the deepest pocket on his vest.

  Yorka replied, “We must use the Orb to help others more unfortunate.”

  “There’s no one more unfortunate than us,” insisted Chellac. “If you’ll remember, we lost everything we had.”

  “We can help people and further our own goals,” said the Bajoran. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you, but while you were collecting our guests, we inspected the Orb and found the power supply had weakened.”

  [129] The Ferengi blinked in surprise. “Well then, how did you—”

  “There was the replicate we used.”

  “Oooh,” said Chellac, rubbing his hands together. “That is good news. But it’s news we must keep to ourselves, until we decide how to handle it. We could probably chain the devices together and give life to a whole planet, but we don’t want every household on Bajor to have an Orb of Life.”

  With a doubtful look on his face, the prylar glanced at the teeming forest sprouting miraculously from barren sand only a few meters away. Monstrous black trees now towered in the sky, and thick mossy vines gyrated in the rushing wind. “We’ve got to learn to program it. I just wish we knew more about that thing,” said Yorka worriedly.

  “Let’s take the Vulcan with us,” suggested the Ferengi. “He has money, he doesn’t make any demands, and he seems smart. The others are good for publicity, but my instincts tell me that he ought to be a partner.”

  “But he’s associated with a criminal element,” said Yorka.

  “Precisely,” answered the Ferengi with a smile. “A Vulcan criminal—who could be more trustworthy than that?”

  “Red alert!” shouted Captain Picard. “Warp drive ... on my mark.”

  “Course?” asked the Deltan on the navigation console.

  “Away from the rift!” answered Picard, giving his helmsman the second he needed to aim in a direction. “Now!”

  The Enterprise extended into a gleaming diamond of light just as the blackness reached out with grasping tentacles, absorbing everything into its gaping, destructive maw. Horrible, unspeakable creatures swirled outward from the massive rift, cavorting like the demons of Hades in the void of space.

  “We have escaped in time,” reported Data on the ops console.

  “And the Romulan ships?” asked Picard.

  [130] “Unknown,” answered Data. “Sensors are inoperative. Communications are impaired. Radiation is beyond measurable levels.”

  The captain glanced worried at the viewscreen, which showed nothing but streaks of static interference. “I hope they saw it in time,” he said grimly.

  “Deanna!” shouted Beverly Crusher, leaning over the prostrate form of her best friend, who had collapsed in her own office. She felt for a pulse and found one, but very weakened.

  The doctor hit her combadge. “Crusher to sickbay. Emergency medical team to Counselor Trois office. Hurry!”

  The little girl gazed in wonder and joy at the tall figure standing in the doorway of her quarters. “Daddy!”

  “Yes, Suzi,” said the smiling, red-haired human, who was wearing a hospital gown. He bent down to hug the six-year-old. “Daddy’s come home.”

  eleven

  “But, Suzi, you mustn’t tell anyone I’ve come home—not even Mama.”

  The six-year-old stared in puzzlement at her father, Andrew Powell. “But why, Daddy? Why can’t I tell Mommy?”

  “Because I’m on a secret mission, and I’m leaving again very soon,” he answered with a comforting smile. “I don’t want to get Mommy worried. I wasn’t supposed to come see you, but I couldn’t help myself.” He rose to his feet and looked at the closed door to Ogawa’s quarters, as if worried that she might come in any second.

  “But, Daddy, I don’t want you to leave!” cried the child, hugging him fiercely.

  “Pumpkin, I’ll just be gone for a little while
,” he said, returning her heartfelt hug. “Don’t worry, I’ll come and see you often, and we’ll play and have fun just like we did before. It’s better that we have a little time together rather than no time at all. But you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone, or they’ll be mad at me and won’t let me see you until I’m all done with my assignment.”

  “Okay,” answered Suzi, nodding bravely through her tears. She [132] was young, but she knew about a Starfleet officer’s devotion to duty—it came before family and everything else. “Is this secret mission about the Genesis Wave? Are you fighting bad guys?”

  “Oh, yes,” he replied, “many bad guys. It will just be a little while longer, and then I can come home and be with you all the time. Do you promise not to tell anyone you saw me?”

  The girl nodded again, and her father stepped to the door and pushed the panel to open it. After glancing both ways down the corridor, he tousled her wavy black hair and said, “I love you, Suzi.”

  “I love you too, Daddy,” she answered hoarsely.

  He smiled, then strode swiftly away. It took all of the girl’s willpower not to follow her daddy down the corridor, but she was so happy just to see him that she couldn’t disobey his request. Although it would be hard to keep his secret from Mommy, she resolved to do so, if that’s what her daddy wanted. Her mama might keep worrying, but at least the little girl knew the truth.

  “My daddy is safe,” Suzi told herself with a tearful smile.

  “Any idea what caused this?” asked Captain Picard, gazing at the unconscious figure of Deanna Troi, stretched out on an examination table in sickbay.

  “No, not really,” answered Beverly Crusher. “It seemed to occur at the same time that the anomaly expanded and forced us to go to warp, but I have no real proof that the two are related. Her condition has stabilized, and I think I could bring her out of it without any ill effects. But I prefer to let her sleep and come out of it on her own.

  “What happened exactly?” asked the captain.

  “We were having a counseling session,” said Crusher, “and I was complaining to the universe about Wesley being gone so long. And she just collapsed in her chair.”