STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book Three

by John Vornholt

  twelve

  On a blustery night, flying gravel and sand clattered like ancient ammunition against the corrugated metal of an ugly building on Torga IV. A Romulan stood outside the communal transporter platform in Celestial Square, watching two brawny humans and two stocky Deltans emerge from the open-air archway. They were dressed like cormaline miners, and they carried brand-new tool kits. But they weren’t miners, decided the Romulan, who answered to the name of Jerit. The majority of miners on Torga IV were impoverished Bajorans, not clean-cut humans and Deltans who had Starfleet Security written all over them. He ducked behind the corner and put up his hood before the new arrivals could get a good look at him. Even though it was night, this transporter station was one of the few places in the drab city that was brightly lit.

  Jerit almost reached for his communicator, but he realized that the new arrivals might be intercepting their signals. So they would have to maintain silence, which meant rounding up his two comrades by foot. After turning off his communicator to make sure he wouldn’t use it, Jerit peered down the dusty street, where neon signs [144] were shaking in the wind. The four newcomers were walking briskly with a purpose, and he realized he would have to run to follow them.

  Best to let them go, he decided. Orders or no orders, it’s finally time to leave this filthy planet.

  For several days, they had searched in vain for the Bajoran monk who had run off with the portable device. At least they assumed Prylar Yorka had it, based on his disappearance and the events of that fateful night. Prylar Yorka had been a fixture on Torga IV since the colony first opened, but he was always considered harmless ... until now. Jerit was still disgusted with himself for letting the device slip through his fingers during that contrived chaos. They should have been more cautious in the temple, or stationed someone in the rear, or done something! Now they would have to declare utter failure and slink away in retreat from Torga IV. As squad leader, he would be disgraced.

  When Jerit looked up again, his pursuers had disappeared into the grimy byways of the mining town. How had they known to come to Torga IV? Did the Federation already possess the missing emitter? Was Prylar Yorka working for them the whole time, and why did the moss creature decide to bring it to his temple?

  For answers, he had found nothing but hearsay and conjecture. None of their questions mattered now, because their mission was hopelessly compromised by the arrival of Starfleet. The Federation had much more influence in a place like this, and they would find the monk, if they didn’t already have him. It was time to withdraw, without waiting for orders, without any anticipation of success. His career was finished, but he still had his squad to save.

  Forsaking the transporter pad and the jittery pool of lights in Celestial Square, the Romulan slipped into the shadows.

  From the pilot’s seat, Cassie Jackson looked back at the cabin of the shuttlecraft, where there was one calm face amid several indignant ones.

  [145] “I still say this is a terrible idea,” grumbled the Bajoran acolyte, whose name she had found out was Alon.

  “As do I,” muttered Prylar Yorka, setting the folds of his face into deep furrows. “But our colleague is right in one respect—we must find out more about the Orb of Life—how it works, how to program it. Right now, we can’t use either the original or the copy, without recharging the fuel cells.”

  “This all makes sense in theory,” muttered Chellac. The little Ferengi rose to his feet and paced the narrow aisle; he was the only one who could do so without ducking. “But how are we going to find a Romulan shuttlecraft and capture three hard-core operatives?”

  “If they’re even still on this planet,” said Alon with a sniff.

  “Begin by thinking calmly and logically,” answered the Vulcan. “They know more about the Orb than we do, because they were chasing after it before we even knew it existed. They may have other devices, or know where they are stored. We have surprise on our side, and no other choices. No matter what you call this apparatus, we all know what it is. And we know that our leverage lies in keeping a monopoly on it.”

  Yorka shifted uncomfortably on his feet, then sunk back into his chair, while Chellac stopped pacing.

  “These Romulans are your competition,” added the Vulcan.

  “You’re right, let’s grab them!” exclaimed the Ferengi, punching his fist outward. “I know we bought a lot of stuff on the black market, but I don’t think we’re the right crew for a disrupter battle in the streets.”

  “Nor do I,” answered their mentor, “and we would want them unharmed in any case. They are looking for you, Prylar, and the last thing they expect is for you to come after them. I have a plan to capture them all without firing a beam or incurring danger.”

  “How?” asked Alon skeptically.

  “Allow me to change my clothes,” said the Vulcan, reaching for his bag. “If you would all face forward for a moment.”

  Cassie was already facing forward, scanning her instruments and [146] glancing out the viewport. They would reach Torga IV in only half an hour, so she hoped he would explain it quickly. Although she considered the Vulcan’s plan risky, they were at a crossroads with this thing. They had a secret bank account that was filling up nicely, but they would need more information before they could really control the Orb of Life.

  “You may look now,” said an unfamiliar voice. Everyone did so, and there were surprised gasps in the cabin. The noble Vulcan had turned himself into a sneering Romulan, complete with the padded shoulders, sashes, regalia, and arrogance of someone very exalted in the Star Empire. He was even wearing a disrupter, and strapped to his back was a small yellow box, like an armored backpack. His expression, his posture, his haughty smile—it was all different from his previous persona.

  “Now that’s impressive,” said Chellac with a grin. “What are you, really?”

  “What I am is a thief,” answered the Romulan, “and a very good one. I have tricks that you haven’t seen yet. I wouldn’t suggest that we capture these three unless I thought the task would be trivial. Bakus sent me to see your object, learn about it, and protect it. That’s what I intend to do.”

  “You’re Rigelian, right?” asked the Ferengi, wagging his finger in triumph.

  “Just listen,” he said, kneeling down and leaning into the group. “There are a few details you must remember, and timing will be important. If we do this right, we’ll end up with another shuttlecraft, too. During this operation, you can call me Regimol.”

  “Regimol!” shouted Cassie Jackson from the pilot’s seat, tossing her pert sandy-colored hair. “There are a lot of big ships in orbit, more than I thought would be here. Prylar, didn’t you say there are usually only three or four freighters, plus a handful of shuttlecraft on the surface?”

  [147] Within seconds, both the Romulan and the Bajoran pressed at her back, each taking a shoulder and peering over. The Bajoran glanced suspiciously at the stranger who had seized command of their gang in a matter of hours, by doing no more than changing his clothes. Cassie wondered what other tricks he had.

  “I count ten starships,” said Regimol.

  Yorka considered the number. “That’s more than normal but not unheard of. Some customers will send a fleet for pickup, and a lot of refugees from the wave have been dumped here—or dispersed, as Starfleet calls it.”

  “We’ll proceed, but with caution.” The Romulan squeezed closer to the pilot and gave her a charming smile. “I bet Cassie could identify those ships.”

  “If I had time to work the computer ... maybe,” she answered, not pulling away from him. In fact, she dug her shoulder deeper into his chest. “But right now I’m flying.”

  “Yes, please concentrate on that,” he answered, making a slow retreat from her supple shoulder. “Most of the ships will be Federation, anyway. Listen, Torga IV has three shuttlecraft hangars where you can get repairs and service. Go to the one on the eastern outskirts of the city—it’s called Dinky’s Dry Dock.”

  “Dinky’s
Dry Dock?” she asked as if disbelieving him.

  “It’s a real place,” added Yorka, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at the Romulan. “Out of the way and disreputable.”

  “Land outside in the desert and let us walk in,” said Regimol. “You can always transport us back.”

  “But only one at a time,” cautioned the Bajoran.

  “We aren’t going to confront them. We aren’t going to confront anyone.” The Romulan straightened his sashes for emphasis.

  Yorka lowered his voice, but his eyes drilled into Regimol’s. Above her head, Cassie could feel the heat generated by the confrontation. “You just remember one thing,” whispered the prylar, “the Prophets gave the Orb of Life to me. Not you, not Bakus, not [148] Chellac. Me. Only I know where the two devices are hidden, and I won’t tell you.”

  Regimol gazed sympathetically at the monk as one might look at a child. “This craft isn’t very large. I could steal your two devices any time I wanted, and you wouldn’t know it. But I’m not a thief among thieves. In fact, I salute your intent to work this discovery to its fullest advantage for you.”

  “See what a great guy he is!” exclaimed Chellac, barging into the conversation.

  “I have bigger designs than that,” declared the monk huffily. He rose to his feet and plodded down the aisle to his seat.

  After that, it was quiet in the cabin as everyone settled down to think about their upcoming offensive. Until now, this thing with the Orb had been fun and games—a combination of hide-and-seek and keep-away—but now they were talking about attacking trained Romulan thugs.

  The silence only lasted until they came out of warp near Torga IV, when subspace crackles filled the communication bands, followed by voices.

  “Hey, fellas,” asked Cassie, “what do I tell flight control to get clearance to land?”

  “Shuttlecraft repair,” answered Regimol, looking over her shoulder and pointing at a map of the city. “And head straight for Dinky’s—due east—so they see you’re telling the truth. There’s too much going on here for them to be worried about us. It might be different getting away from here, especially if we’re in a hurry.”

  “Going into landing pattern,” reported Cassie as she worked her instruments. “I need some elbow room, please.”

  “Sorry,” said Regimol, backing away once more. “Your skill and confidence gives me great comfort, Miss Jackson.”

  “I wish I could say the same,” she muttered.

  They soared over a sprawling cormaline refinery, with glistening towers and sweeping searchlights warning them away from noisy [149] pulverizers, huge vats, snaking conduits, and gigantic coils buzzing with energy. Then they sped over the drab city, which looked like a collection of huge Quonset huts, mired in a dust storm. The brightest lights seemed restricted to gaudy bar-lined streets running through the center of town. These tawdry thoroughfares pointed like arrows to an oasis of lights in the distance, perched on the outskirts of an opaque desert. Dinky’s Dry Dock, presumed Cassie.

  As they drew closer, she could make out well-lit landing pads, runways, a fenced yard with a dozen resting shuttlecraft, and a modern terminal in the center. Where the light melted into the darkness outside the fence, she could see more hulks which might be shuttlecraft. It was hard to tell if they were junks, partial hulls, or capable ships, but it might be a good place to hide their own craft.

  “Do you want me to land near those shuttles littering the desert?” she asked the Romulan.

  “No,” he answered quickly. “Get an isolated position with some space around you, so you can see people coming. You don’t want a vole or a scavenger to set off your sensors.”

  “I warn you,” said Yorka darkly, “refugees are trying desperately to get off this planet. They’d be happy to hijack a lone, defenseless shuttlecraft in the middle of nowhere.”

  “They won’t be defenseless,” said Regimol calmly, “they’ll have their shields up.”

  “I don’t feel right about going out there and only having one person here,” declared the monk. “I’m staying with the shuttlecraft and Cassie.”

  “I still need Alon,” said Regimol just before the thin Bajoran also tried to weasel out. The acolyte put his finger down, waiting for his master to save him.

  “Yes, he can go with you,” grumbled Yorka, turning away from his underling. The crushed look on Alon’s face was priceless, thought Cassie.

  She turned back to business, ignoring their bickering. A minute [150] later, she reported, “I’ve found a landing site. Return to your seats, please.”

  “Still the good manners of a professional tour guide,” said Regimol, gazing down at her with a smile.

  She tried to ignore him and concentrate on her landing, which was easy enough thanks to many similar landings in the wilderness of Meldrar IV’s moon. After compensating for the increased gravity, she dropped the shuttlecraft into the fine yellow sand, adding more dust to the swirling night wind.

  Regimol smiled as he gazed out the window at scrawny thorn bushes, buffeted by the gritty wind. “Ah, this is a good night for matters of stealth. Kill your running lights.”

  “We won’t be able to see,” protested Yorka.

  “You’re going to trust your eyes on a night like this?” asked Regimol, scoffing. He looked appealingly at Cassie, expecting her to back him up, and she killed the running lights. There was still enough light from her instrument panel for her to see everything she needed to see, but the others were crouched in shadow like the gang of conspirators they were.

  The Romulan smiled fondly at her. “Remember, if you have to take off without us, the rendezvous point is the Oasis of Tears on Bajor in two days.”

  “Yes, I remember,” she answered. “It will have to be bad for me to do that.”

  “It’s good that you’ll be here to help her,” said Regimol to the Prylar. “Those Romulans will be dead weight when they tumble off our transporter. She’ll need help handling them.”

  “If you cause us to lose the Orb—” warned Yorka, letting his thunderous preacher’s voice trail off.

  “If only the Prophets had given you an instruction manual along with it,” replied Regimol with a teasing smile. “Chellac, are you ready?”

  “Yes,” answered the Ferengi, hefting a Bajoran assault rifle and checking its settings.

  [151] “And you, Alon?”

  The acolyte gulped and nodded hesitantly as he fingered the phaser on his hip. Cassie was worried that he might turn tail and run, but he was the only one of their assault team who really knew the town, who had lived there. Regimol knew about Dinky’s, but that was all; and the Ferengi knew only a couple of spots. As a Bajoran, Alon was the one who was most likely to fit in.

  “It’s going to be a long walk,” said Alon, peering out the dark window at the distant light of the terminal. It was separated by so much black that it looked like a far-off nebula, and the town beyond it wasn’t even visible.

  “I can transport you closer,” replied Cassie.

  “No,” responded the Romulan, wrapping a cape around himself. “The walk won’t hurt us. You can often learn things from a walk in the countryside. But there won’t be any chitchat over the combadges. We won’t contact you unless we’re ready to evacuate, or we’re going to abort the mission.”

  She nodded. “Only if there’s trouble.”

  “Do you have your lamps?” he asked, glancing from Chellac to Alon. They hefted their miner’s lamps, which were able to put out a lot of light thanks to a plasma element. They were also common as dirt around here, according to the Bajorans.

  “I don’t see as well as you do in the darkness,” protested the slender Bajoran.

  Regimol lifted a calming hand. “Fear not, Chellac sees the best of all, and he will go first. There’s more starlight out there than we see from in here. Wear your goggles, because the sand will be harsh unless the wind dies down.”

  As the Ferengi and the Bajoran fumbled with their goggles, Regimol smiled confidently
at Cassie. “Do a sensor sweep.”

  “I already have,” she answered. “I don’t need you to tell me my job. You just bring back that instruction manual you keep harping about. It’s clear outside. The nearest life-forms are in the yard, a [152] kilometer-and-a-half away. Shields are down, and I’m popping the hatch.”

  “Go for it!” exclaimed Chellac, gripping his weapon.

  With a whoosh that was like a pent-up sigh, the hatch sprang open, and the Ferengi jumped into the murky sandstorm.

  Through a dust devil of leaves and plastic bits, a black-hooded figure strode from the entrance of Dormitory 16, a bustling sleeping station for male miners. He turned a comer and joined a crouching confederate, who rose to his feet at his approach.

  “Is he there?” asked Jerit.

  The younger Romulan shook his head. “I don’t know where he could be. If he’s on the move, we might be passing each other. I say we use communications.”

  “No!” snapped Jerit. “He knows his orders are to stay put. There’s one more place—the water fountain—and that’s on the way to the vessel. That would be his final fall-back position.”

  Something caught the Romulan’s eye, and he pulled his confederate out of the way just as two humans and a Bajoran exited from the dormitory. They were holding tricorders, making no attempt to hide their scans of the area.

  “Move out,” he whispered urgently, slapping his cohort on the back. The youth dashed into a dark alley, with Jerit on his heels, because he heard voices right behind them. Then he heard unmistakable footsteps, and he lowered his night-vision goggles to cut through the dust and gloominess of the alley.

  As they ran, Jerit removed a stun grenade from his belt and hefted it in his hand, ready to flip up the safety with his thumb and push the button underneath. “Keep going! To the next spot.”

  In fear, his comrade took off like a shot, while Jerit slowed to get a good look at his pursuers. They obliged by stopping to fire a wild phaser beam at him, which streaked by his head and scorched the [153] corrugated metal—he got a good estimate of their distance. Now he ran, pushing up the safety with his thumb, then hitting the trigger. Twisting his body athletically, Jerit bowled the grenade along the ground, not chancing a bounce. After that, he ran full out, yet he could feel himself being swept helplessly off his feet by the detonation of the concussion grenade. The pufflike sound followed a split-second later.