STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book Three

by John Vornholt

  His subordinate entered a code on a handheld device, and the hatch whooshed open a second before they reached it. Almost skipping with joy, the two Romulans ducked into the small starship. At the copilot’s seat sat their third member, who didn’t rise to greet them; his back remained turned toward them.

  “Good, you’re already plotting a course,” said Jerit, stripping off his body armor. “Save your explanations for now, because I don’t want to know why you disobeyed orders. Just start the launch sequence and notify the tower.”

  The comrade nodded, and Jerit and the youth put on their flight suits. Suddenly the air in the cabin seemed stuffy, and he couldn’t breathe without difficulty. Grasping his collar, the leader staggered a few steps before he forgot why he was concerned. He just wanted to lie down and take a nap ... a good long nap. Jerit’s legs finally turned to rags, and he collapsed face-first onto the deck, just centimeters away from the copilot’s seat. His youthful associate lay at his feet, unconscious.

  Lanik turned in his seat to look down at Jerit, only it wasn’t Lanik, but a stranger. The squad leader blinked helplessly, trying to [164] focus on the smiling face ... trying to figure out why he didn’t recognize him, when he should.

  Well, for one thing, the intruder was wearing a gas mask, which muffled his voice slightly. “Just relax, Centurion. Your flight will depart soon.”

  The stranger got up and moved to the pilot’s seat, where he continued to study the console. “Now why did you have to modify the navigation subroutines?”

  Jerit gargled some angry words, but nothing recognizable came from his mouth except spittle. “Sorry, can’t have you making noise.” The intruder aimed a phaser at him, and he saw the flash and felt the jolt an instant before everything went black.

  The humans dragged Chellac into a dimly lit room and tossed him unceremoniously into a very comfortable chair. He looked around and saw a proscenium stage, several tables surrounded by plush furniture, and a handful of Ferengi sitting on the overstuffed seats. The audience numbered about eight in all, and he was sure it was an audience because their attention was directed toward the empty stage. Pleasant Ferengi chamber music played in the background, and one of the humans placed an elegant glass of Saurian brandy in front of him, followed by a sparkling glass of water.

  “Thank you,” said Chellac, relaxing a bit. He looked at the audience again, but it was hard to make out faces in the dim light. Still he could see one wrinkled, sagging elder in the middle, who was obviously the star around which the satellites revolved. He lifted his glass and toasted Chellac, pointing to the stage with his other speckled hand.

  Chellac toasted his glass in response, wondering if he should move closer to the potentate. But the music suddenly changed, getting heated and more sinuous, with rolling drum rhythms and dissonant chords. A naked Ferengi woman strolled onto the stage, which [165] was not at all unusual or titillating, except that she was very attractive. What was unusual was the bright pink suitcase she carried with her.

  She held the suitcase away from her body, and four legs sprang out of the bottom. The performer placed this instant table on the floor and very lovingly opened the case. Then she began to teasingly draw out filmy underwear and lingerie, followed by a skimpy human sundress. She’s not going to put those things on, is she? thought Chellac with excitement.

  The first thing she put on was a sock, which made Chellac’s pulse beat so fast that he thought his head might explode. Then she slipped on a set of spotted underwear, which made the patrons in the back laugh nervously. When the female encased her bosom in another thing—Chellac didn’t even know the name for it—you could have heard an eyelash drop to the floor. When she wriggled into the dress, the whole room erupted with applause.

  At this point, Chellac had to rush back to his host, while the talented performer strutted around in her clothes. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he gushed. “This is ... the most decadent show I’ve ever seen!”

  “You liked it, huh?” The wart-covered Ferengi wheezed a laugh. “There’s nothing like an old-fashioned dresstease ... it’s a dying art. Wait, she’s got some flannel pajamas to try on.”

  While the others hooted and hollered for the pajamas, Chellac was forced to bend closer to the seated potentate. “I’m afraid I can’t stay. I wish I could.”

  “Dinky is the name,” said the elder. The fruity scent of his wart cream almost made Chellac gag. “Did I mention that I have a business proposition for you?”

  “You do?” The visitor leaned closer, despite the awful smell.

  “Yes,” he hissed happily. “One of your traveling companions is a wanted criminal with a high price on his head. Did you know that?”

  Chellac was momentarily distracted as the girl on the stage tried [166] on a ski jacket. “No, I didn’t know that,” he said hoarsely. “But I never trusted that Bajoran.”

  “It’s the Romulan, as if you didn’t know.” Dinky scoffed at him and slurped down some more brandy. “So you help us capture him, and we’ll split the reward, minus our expenses, of course.”

  “Expenses?” asked Chellac doubtfully. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Psssst!” hissed a voice from the darkness. Chellac whirled around and saw a figure motioning to him from a table in the corner. “Come here, Chellac!”

  The fellow blurting his name got the Ferengi’s attention. “Excuse me,” he said to his host as he hustled over to the slender patron, who didn’t have the ears to be a Ferengi. However, the ears he had were pointed.

  “Regimol!” whispered the Ferengi. “What are you doing here?”

  The Romulan shook his head in amazement. “You don’t know this is a holodeck, do you? I’ve been looking all over for you.” From a bag on his shoulder, Regimol took out a tubelike instrument and handed it to his comrade. “Here’s a signal amplifier, in case I have to transport you.”

  “This is a holodeck?” asked the Ferengi, looking around with sad realization.

  “Rented by the hour. That mugato skin she’s wearing ... it’s not real.”

  Chellac pleaded, “Any chance you can steal me a copy of this program?”

  With a glance past the Ferengi’s shoulder, Regimol rose to his feet. “Not now, because your playmates have seen me. Get out as best you can.”

  Without warning, the exclusive café faded into a dingy industrial gray, and Chellac turned to see two brawny humans running straight toward them.

  “How are you getting out?” asked the Ferengi, whirling around. [167] But the Romulan was gone—disappeared, even though there was nothing behind them but two walls and the comer they formed. Chellac ran into the glowing holodeck grid, hoping the walls would give way, as they must have for Regimol. But all he got for his efforts were a stubbed toe and a bashed nose.

  “Owww!” groaned Chellac. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, and the two humans skidded to a stop a few steps away, thinking he had a weapon. When he pulled out cloth instead, they crouched down and spread their arms, maneuvering to keep him pinned in the corner.

  “Just answer a few questions, and we’ll let you go,” promised one of them with a smile. “We don’t want you.”

  “I don’t know that Romulan!” shouted Chellac, stepping one way and then the other. “You can’t hold me. I haven’t done anything wrong! I demand to see the Ferengi consul!”

  Without waiting for them to reply, Chellac rolled into a ball and scooted between the nearest one’s legs.

  “Hey, come back here!” he shouted.

  Both humans lunged for him, but Chellac kept crawling and rolling just out of their grasp. A combadge beeped, and one of them broke off the chase to answer the call. Chellac jumped to his feet and used the big, empty room to keep up his evasive maneuvers. When he tried to reach the door, his pursuer had to veer off to protect it.

  “We don’t have time for games,” said the angry human, drawing his phaser.

  “They’re moving out, anyway,” reported
his cohort, hiding his combadge behind a turned-down collar. “Stun him.”

  Chellac hurled himself at the one with phaser, trying to get under his legs, so that they couldn’t shoot him. Suddenly there was a blur in the room, and a disembodied arm appeared from nowhere, whipping a metal pipe into the shooter’s head. By the time he hit the ground, his associate got the same metal pipe in his gut and then on [168] the back of his head. Before Chellac even had time to breathe, the fight was over and his two abductors had been dispatched.

  Gradually, a whole being sizzled into view, looming over Chellac. With a grin, he saw that it was Regimol, come back to rescue him once again.

  “Okay, now you can get back to the runabout,” insisted the Romulan. “You won’t be able to follow me—I’ll be invisible and passing through walls. Keep that signal amplifier activated in case I have to beam you out.”

  “Thanks!” blurted Chellac. “So how do you go through walls?”

  “Take the phaser,” muttered the Romulan, pointing to the weapon laying on the floor beside the fallen human.

  Chellac bent down to pick it up, and when he looked back, the Romulan was fading from view, not as a transporter does but as a poor visual signal might die out. Chellac noted the yellow device he wore on his back; it blinked while he vanished and lasted a moment longer than the rest of him.

  The Ferengi fumbled at the door before he finally found a control panel that would open it. He stepped into a corridor that was crowded with people trying to exit the building. Chellac couldn’t tell the cause of the stampede, but it apparently came from the clubhouse. He got caught up in the surge and had to kick and punch to keep from getting trampled. At the front of the crowd, he spotted Alon, being escorted by fellow Bajorans. It was up to Regimol to decide whether to rescue the Bajoran or not. Chellac had his orders.

  A moment later, the Ferengi stumbled into the street, along with a few dozen other patrons. While guards rushed back and forth with weapons, Chellac did exactly as he’d been told and made a straight dash for the runabout in the far corner of the yard. He heard shouts and yelling, and he never even turned to see if they were directed at him. To keep them from shooting at him, the Ferengi darted among the other shuttlecraft. He could spot his destination easily enough, because others were moving toward it, and the launch thrusters were firing.

  [169] He rushed past two Bajorans who were wrestling with a dark-suited Romulan, as more guards converged upon them. That wasn’t his Romulan, Chellac noted with relief. It had to be the third spy, who was going to end up in custody. The Romulan aided the escaping Ferengi by drawing a weapon and squeezing off a beam, which caused most of the people in the vicinity to flop to the landing pad.

  But not Chellac, who kept huffing and puffing as a sliver of light appeared under the hatch. “Halt!” someone shrieked as he plodded past. The hatch started to rise, and Chellac increased his speed as a phaser blast streaked past him. He dove the final few meters into the doorway, landing on a hard metal step. Strong hands dragged him into the cabin as the hatch snapped shut where his legs had been.

  Stepping over two fallen Romulans, Regimol bounded into the pilot’s seat and tapped the instrument panel. “There! Shields are back up. Take a seat, Chellac, we’re not hanging around.”

  “What about the force-field?” asked the Ferengi breathlessly. He didn’t have enough energy to even move from the deck.

  “I took care of it while I was out,” answered Regimol with a smile. He worked his board, and the runabout began to lift off the landing pad. Outside the craft, small weapons fire shimmered against their shields, but it did no damage to the sturdy craft. Chellac covered his eyes, expecting to be blown up any second.

  When he was still alive a moment later, the Ferengi pried his eyes open and peered out the rear viewport. He saw the bright lights of Torga IV rapidly receding into the distance, and he laughed joyfully at their daring escape. After a few more seconds, the black curtain of space fell all around their tiny craft, and they were anonymous once again.

  “So how do you walk through walls?” asked Chellac conversationally as he filed his fingernails, while reclining in a soft passenger seat on the runabout.

  [170] When Regimol ignored his question, one of the bound Romulans lying on the deck piped up. “First you become a traitor, that’s how,” said the one named Jerit. “Then you steal an interphase generator and become a common criminal.”

  “I hate to correct you,” said Regimol from the pilot’s seat, “but I didn’t steal it, I invented it. And I never wanted to become a criminal—just a dissenting voice who thought we should share technology with other races, especially Vulcans. It was our own Senate who turned me into a criminal.”

  “And a good job they did!” said Chellac cheerfully. “I take it, you all know each other?”

  Flopping about on the deck, Jerit scowled and tried to twist away from the Ferengi’s gaze. His younger associate just lay still, staring hatefully at his captors.

  “They all know me in the Legion of Assassins,” said Regimol matter-of-factly. “They’ve all been sent to kill me a time or two, with pathetic results, as you can see. Now we’ll find out what they know, and what they were searching for on that planet.”

  “I’ll never tell you a thing!” vowed Jerit angrily. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

  “That’s not my department,” said Regimol with a shrug. “I captured you, and now I’ll take you to someone who will extract what we need to know.”

  “Who?” asked Jerit defiantly.

  “My master, Bakus.”

  That caused the Romulan to blanch a lighter shade of green, and Chellac found it amusing that even Romulan killers could fear a master criminal. He rose to his feet and sat in the copilot’s seat beside Regimol.

  “When do we rendezvous with Yorka and the shuttlecraft?” whispered the Ferengi.

  “We don’t,” answered Regimol. “We can’t trust them. They deserted us, Chellac ... they ran out on us.”

  [171] “No, no, they didn’t,” insisted the Ferengi, although in his heart he was beginning to wonder. “It was just a misunderstanding. They got scared and couldn’t wait for us. It was my fault—I overreacted.”

  The Romulan smiled with amusement. “A trusting Ferengi! That is sweet. Yes, you gave them an excuse to leave, and they thought about it for a nanosecond.” He sighed longingly. “I try to set a good example, but perhaps there is no honor among thieves. I thought Cassie would have more sense, but she must have surrendered to greed. I don’t think they’ll want to see us again.”

  “It’s all over then, isn’t it?” said Chellac, shaking his head miserably. “All that work I put in, and there won’t be any profit. There won’t be anything for us.”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s over,” replied Regimol thoughtfully. “Also a fast runabout and two prisoners is not a bad day’s work. But the big prize eluded both us and our friends.”

  He glanced back at their two sullen captives and added, “I will be curious to see what these fellows do next.”

  Captain Picard and Geordi La Forge stood outside sickbay on the Enterprise, discussing the engineer’s latest idea. “I know, Captain, that nothing has worked so far, but that’s because we’re approaching this as a conventional body in space, which can be measured and analyzed. It can’t—it doesn’t make any sense, except when seen from another dimension. This experiment with Counselor Troi is a good start, from that angle, but we need to move physically into it. If beings can come out of the rift, then we can go into it.”

  The captain’s lips thinned. “We’re like a village nestled in the shadow of a live volcano, which is about to erupt any second. Justifiably, we’re under orders to keep our distance from this thing.”

  The engineer was still thinking out loud. “If we could get them back, the Brahms prototype suits would be perfect to penetrate the rift.”

  [172] “What about the subspace cracks that Data discovered?” asked the captain, moving to a different tact.
“He seemed to think that was a viable source of information.”

  Geordi looked doubtful. “That’s like studying the cracks in the sidewalk and ignoring the roots from the huge oak tree next to it. Data and I agree that the subspace cracks seem to link these various anomalies, which accounts for them behaving in unison. But if we try to block them or jam them, we don’t know what that will do. Data’s been trying to figure out how to use subspace to communicate with the rift, maybe send it a signal to contract instead of expand, but that could take a long time.”

  “Can we step up the search for biological beings?” asked Picard. “In particular, can we tell if a second Romulan vessel was lost?”

  The engineer shook his head. “Not unless our sensors return to normal, or we get a good deal closer. Something alive may be out there in the debris, but it couldn’t live long in all that radiation.”

  “I see,” muttered Picard.

  “I’d like to explore the possible link between the rift and those portable Genesis emitters,” said La Forge, “but we don’t have any of them to test the theory. Our best bet is to go into the rift.”

  The door to sickbay opened, and Beverly Crusher stuck her head out. “We’re ready to induce the dream state,” she said.

  Picard nodded and glanced at La Forge. “I’ll consider it.”

  With the engineer following him, the captain entered sickbay, where he smiled cordially at Dr. Crusher. She led them into a private room, where Deanna Troi lay in bed, with Nurse Ogawa in attendance.

  Captain Picard approached Troi’s bedside and gave the counselor an encouraging smile. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, but I can’t guarantee anything. I haven’t felt it again—that sense of recognition that I had when I passed out. I’m not even sure I was right about this being the same entity we encountered at Gemworld.”

  [173] “This is just one avenue we’re pursuing,” replied Picard with a glance at La Forge. “I’m entertaining almost every idea these days.”