STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book Three

by John Vornholt

  [214] He nodded pathetically and tried to hold his chin high, but Picard could tell that these smirking Romulans already regarded him for what he was—the commander’s consort. With a grim expression, knowing what he had to do, the captain led the cadre of Romulans toward the transporter room.

  “Commander Riker,” said the Deltan on the ops console. “Transporter room two reports that the captain has returned. He says he is going to his quarters and would like updates sent to him there.”

  The first officer glanced with relief at Dr. Crusher. “He wasn’t there even an hour.”

  “Maybe the crisis is over,” she whispered with a smile.

  “Ops, send Captain Picard the recent message from Admiral Nechayev,” ordered Riker, “and tell him that the admiral is due to arrive here on the Sequoia in about eight hours.”

  “Yes, Sir,” answered the ops officer.

  “If you don’t mind,” said Crusher, “I’ve got to catch up with some work.”

  “Understood,” said the first officer. “Thanks for holding my hand.”

  Crusher nodded and headed for the door. Maybe Jean-Luc’s infatuation is over, she thought hopefully, and what am I going to do about it, if it is?

  Steeling herself for what was about to come, Teska entered the brig alone. Just outside the door and in the control room, armed guards waited to come to her rescue, should that be needed. The Vulcan doubted there would be any need, because she could see a broken man crouched on the bunk in his cell. That which he never thought would happen—failure, capture, and capitulation—had occurred at once, and he was thoroughly shamed and discredited in his own eyes.

  [215] She knelt down in front of Jerit, the Romulan assassin, not wishing to be standing over him. They had to be equals. “Are you ready to meld with me?”

  After a few seconds, he looked up and shrugged. “Why not?”

  “You know that Vulcans are stronger than Romulans as a rule,” she said, “due to the greater gravity on our homeworld.”

  “Are you saying that you would best me in a fight?” he asked, his sagging face sparking with amusement.

  “I am saying that if you volunteer to meld with me, you had better not be doing it as a ruse to escape.” Teska peered at him with dark, attentive eyes. “I am opening myself freely to you. In a few minutes, you will know me better than any living creature, even my mate or family. You will be entirely up to date with my existence, as I will be with yours.”

  The Romulan shook his head puzzledly. “I don’t understand—you were in my mind once before. What is it you didn’t get then?”

  “We did not meld before,” she said with the whisper of a smile. “Do not be angry, my superior is very good at her job.”

  Jerit sat back on his haunches and laughed out loud. “This is too much! You never did the mind-meld on me? I’ll say your superior is good. And all you did was stand there.”

  “I wish to do more now,” said the priestess. “But meld with me because you want to. Your status will change if you do, and we will expedite your case—but I wish this to be completely voluntary on your part. I am a priestess, and I hold the mind-meld in a different regard than many, including Vulcans. So if you use the meld as a ruse to escape, I will send you to a stasis chamber in sickbay.”

  The smile vanished from Jerit’s lips. “I believe you would.”

  “Shall I lower the force-field?” she asked, rising to her feet.

  “You know, I was going to try to escape,” muttered the Romulan. “But honesty like yours is not something I’ve seen much in my life. You’ll have to forgive me ... if I don’t know how to react. I’ve been dealing with the fact that my life is over ... after this.”

  [216] He swallowed hard, then perked up. “So come on in, Vulcan priestess. But I warn you that my mind is not a pretty place.”

  “I have not anticipated that it would be pretty,” she answered, walking to the wall panel and turning off the force-field. “However, I trust you. Now that you have committed to this act, you will follow through.”

  “You know me already,” said the Romulan, sitting back on his bunk. He looked nervous.

  Teska alighted on the bunk beside him and began to massage his neck until he began to relax. “Do not be afraid,” she assured him. “I am giving, not just taking.”

  When he was as relaxed as he was going to get, she used her fingers to close his eyes. That got him accustomed to the feeling of her fingers on his face. As gently as she could, Teska spread her delicate digits across his left cheekbone, forming a pattern of contacts. Almost immediately, the bloody images and raw sensations rushed into her mind.

  seventeen

  Teska immediately slowed things down with her mind, showing Jerit that they had an infinite amount of time, and that they didn’t have to hurry the meld. It was like a person holding a conversation in his head with himself, both sides having the same data at their combined fingertips.

  For a Romulan, Jerit had not lived a life of privilege ... he was born to poverty and low caste—the child of a comfort worker, as they were called. His first memory was of watching soldiers rape his mother, who disappeared shortly thereafter. Then Jerit was raised in a brutal orphanage, where he was schooled in violence and taught to suppress his feeling ... but those two were mutually exclusive. He was smart enough to know that, and he had spent more time suppressing his emotions than a hundred Vulcans put together.

  So much pain ... so much passion ... all left to wither. But he showed a penchant for inflicting violence, and he was taken to a special school. All of that flew by Teska like the leaves in a storm. She could catch bits and pieces to inspect, but it was all of a depressing piece, gladdened only by his swift rise in his craven profession. [218] Inflicting pain and death was Jerit’s art, as was hunting and survival He took great pride in his skill and the fear he inspired—it gave him worth. But there was never much pleasure ... the violence had ceased being pleasurable, and the women all seemed cloying. They were all sick in some way, like him.

  A bleak life it was, but Teska saw the satisfaction in murder. There was no ambiguity, no doubt, no compromise. Is he dead? If he’s dead, the job is over, and the next job begins. In some respects, Jerit’s life flowed peacefully, like a river, with a predictable outcome based on his growing experience and determined sense of duty. Then a shred of jetsam flew past, which Teska had to pluck from the stream. In her hand, the bit became an ugly pool of memory, which she found to be deep and frigid. Yet Teska dove in and swam to the center.

  Yes, the timing was right ... four years after her uncle started to make overtures to a Romulan underground that was sick of autocracy and militarism. The Star Empire overreacted to the perceived threat; arrests were made; murderers were summoned. Jerit’s mind responded to her questions, drawing her through the brutal but efficient chain of killings, until Teska saw it all—the one death she could not bear to watch. Hasmek ... standing tall and defiant, professing his innocence while professing his love for his Vulcan mate.

  It was an unjust fate, but he had ignored both her and Spock—he had refused their help ... their warnings. Arrogant to a fault like most of his countrymen, Hasmek had dared the Fates and lost. At that point, Jerit wrapped a shroud over Teska’s eyes and spirited her past the actual scene of Hasmek’s death. He died bravely, said the Romulan. He frightened them more than I did.

  The two of them merged and melded their thoughts, dreams, and desires, becoming intimate in a way even lovers dared not. Jerit’s mind was ugly because it was deprived of beauty, and Teska’s mind was beautiful but deprived of wildness. Something had been lost to her—that almost-human child she had been a long time ago—but the Romulan found that child and made her face her unpredictable [219] tendencies, which seemed mostly directed at his race. Hate Romulans, love Romulans—both urges are valid, his voice seemed to say. Jerit delighted in the fact that his species got under her skin.

  With complete impartiality, they exchanged information on the current mission to t
he point where they were in complete agreement. At that moment they awoke, staring at each other.

  Tears welled in the hardened Romulan’s eyes, and he gripped her forearm and wept upon her shoulder. “I killed your husband ... I killed him! I’m so sorry—” He sobbed like the child who had watched his mother brutalized.

  Teska patted him tenderly on the back. “It was my good fortune that it was you, Jerit, because now I know—” Her voice experienced interference, and she was unable to continue. There was no point in speaking, because they knew each other’s secrets better than they knew their own.

  “You will be all right here,” she told him, rising to her feet and swaying on wobbly legs.

  The murderer looked up at her with tear-filled eyes. Choking back sobs, he said, “Thank you, Teska. Just remember ... what I told you.”

  “Yes.” She nodded, and a smile flitted across her face.

  Admiral Nechayev met the Vulcan in the corridor, and she was immediately surrounded by underlings with padds. “What else did you learn? Anything about Genesis!”

  “Nothing new,” answered Teska, mastering her composure. “Jerit is not prone to question his orders or demand to know more than he needs to know.”

  “I didn’t think so. Anything personal?”

  “To me, yes,” said Teska. “Hasmek is indeed dead.”

  Nechayev winced with sympathy. “I’m sorry. Do you need to take some time off?”

  Teska cocked a quizzical eyebrow as if such a thought were completely alien to her. “No, Sir. I have a ceremony to perform, but it has been delayed five years already. It can wait until I am home. The [220] one who killed Hasmek is in that room beyond. If I could include him for the ceremony, it would bode well for a meaningful conclusion.”

  “Won’t he try to escape?” asked Nechayev with a scowl.

  “No,” Teska answered with certainty. “He has committed himself to helping me.”

  The admiral nodded as if she didn’t know what else to say, so Teska took her leave. The Vulcan walked slowly down the corridor. Although her mind was at peace, her legs were still as weak as a newborn sehlat’s, and her heart seemed to weigh twice as much as it thudded emptily in her torso.

  “They’re going to be there, Regimol, you’ll see!” claimed Chellac as he lounged in the copilot’s seat on the runabout, buttoning his vest and adjusting his cummerbund.

  The elegant Romulan paced behind him, his head nearly brushing the ceiling in the small craft. “We’re not staying long,” he warned. “An hour, and if they’re not there, we leave. Depending on what we find in our other queries—and if we have time—we might come back. But it’s been two days, so they ought to be there.”

  The Ferengi leaped to his feet and snapped his suspenders. “You worry too much. I’ve been with Yorka since the beginning, and he won’t desert me. Plus Cindy really liked me.”

  “Cassie,” muttered the Romulan. “Her name was Cassie.”

  “Don’t worry. If they’re not there, nothing lost.”

  “Except time.” Regimol scowled and began to pace again. Three security officers looked on from the passenger seats, while the lone Bajoran among them put on his civilian clothes, which consisted of a robe with a hood to hide his face. He carefully hid a phaser in his boot.

  “Attention, Sir, we’re entering synchronous orbit around Bajor,” said the Coridan pilot. “We’re in transporter range of the Oasis of Tears.”

  [221] “Let’s go,” said Chellac confidently. He and the Bajoran, whose name was Potriq, stepped into the two-person transporter, while Regimol sat down at the controls.

  “I’m beaming you down outside of the oasis, and you’ll walk in,” said the Romulan. “It’s midday.”

  “Don’t put us too far away,” replied Chellac. “You don’t want to waste time.”

  With a scowl, Regimol hit the membrane keyboard, and Chellac and his escort dematerialized with the usual tingle and flash. They rematerialized in a desert, standing among sharp, prickly succulents.

  “Ow! Eeek!” shouted the Ferengi, jumping away from one thorny bush into another. “I’ll get that Regimol!”

  “Quiet,” warned the Bajoran. “We’re right outside the wall. He did as you asked.”

  In the bright sunlight, Chellac could see quaint earthen walls of an ochre color, surrounding a lush garden where gigantic trees and tall reeds sprouted seemingly from nowhere. He couldn’t see any water, but there was a small gate with a creaking wooden door beckoning him to enter. Stepping gingerly through the thickets, the Ferengi managed to find a path. As he walked, he drew his dagger and pried prickly appendages off his trousers. “What a delightful place,” he muttered.

  “Do you know why they call it the Oasis of Tears?” asked Potriq.

  “No,” answered Chellac, making it clear that he didn’t care.

  Still the Bajoran went on, “It was always an oasis, but it had just one small artesian well, where the locals used to bathe and feed their herds. When the Cardassians took over, they brought in slave labor and excavated a big lake—all to build a resort, so their officers could have a special retreat. I don’t need to tell you the unspeakable things that went on here.”

  “So nothing unspeakable goes on here now?” asked Chellac sadly.

  “No, the buildings were torn down. We kept the lake but returned everything to a natural state, as much as we could,” said the Bajoran [222] proudly. “It’s just a place for quiet reflection now, and you can water your herd again.”

  “I wish I had a herd, but all I have are puncture wounds from these damn prickles,” muttered Chellac, mincing gently toward the gate.

  Finally he pushed open the old wooden plank and entered a dreamy paradise. He could see why they had kept the lake, because it was absolutely gorgeous. Ringed by towering trees and gently swaying reeds, the body of water was an unexpected vision of loveliness in the thorn-infested desert. In the middle of the lake floated a small island, and a picturesque footbridge connected it to the shore. Chellac could imagine a gazebo, theater, or similar structure gracing the island in its heyday.

  An overgrown creek connected the lake to an old stand of trees in a grassy meadow. Chellac assumed that was the site of the original artesian well. Now the only amenities were the occasional picnic table, drinking fountain, or comfort station, and no one seemed to be using them. Still the birds twittered, and the insects buzzed, inviting them to enter the oasis as surely as a band playing in a nightclub.

  Potriq followed behind him, studying a tricorder. “Hold up,” whispered the Bajoran. “Hold up, I said!”

  The Ferengi stopped and glared at his confederate with indignation. “Why are you ordering me about? I’ve got people I need to meet in here!”

  “There are a lot of lifesigns in here,” said the Bajoran. “Too many, and we can’t see any of them. They’re hiding.”

  “What? It’s a trap?” Chellac leaped toward the gate.

  “Try to act naturally and keep your voice down,” said the Bajoran, keeping his eyes on his tricorder. Then he lifted his eyes and gazed upward into the trees spreading their leafy boughs above them. Without warning, a large nut came hurtling down, and Chellac had to dive out of the way to avoid being hit. A chortle of whooping laughter greeted his escapades.

  “Hey, you think that’s funny?” screamed the Ferengi from his [223] back, shaking his fist at the sky. “Come down here and show yourself!”

  “Oh, they’re not people,” Potriq said with relief. “They’re fleecy Kerood monkeys—a kind of primate. I had forgotten they were introduced here, because the Cardassians destroyed their habitat.”

  “Perhaps they had good reason,” muttered the Ferengi. He staggered to his feet, brushed off his clothes, and peered dubiously into the leafy broughs spread above them.

  As he walked deeper into the oasis, Chellac gazed at the lake, so peaceful and calm, with that quaint wooden bridge. The island beckoned like a second oasis within the first, and Chellac decided that the Bajoran slaves
had not labored in vain. A fish jumped out of the water, and a moment later all the birds took off from the trees, squawking. He took a few more steps and heard rustling behind him; the Ferengi turned to tell the Bajoran not to dawdle.

  However, the security officer was lying in the leaves and grass, his eyes staring lifelessly, his tricorder blinking under his twitching hand. He looked dead. Dropping into a crouch, the Ferengi dashed for cover, just as a tiny dart came hissing past his earlobe. “Whoa!” he shouted as he dove under a large fern.

  A dark figure emerged from the creek, dripping wet and carrying a long, tubular weapon. This assassin stole across the meadow until he spotted his prey, then he dropped into a crouch and aimed his weapon. The Ferengi barely had time to leap and roll before another dart flashed his way, barely missing him. When he looked back at his pursuer, the ominous figure was already moving closer.

  Suddenly, there was a shadow behind the murderer, and a disembodied arm holding a metal pipe came into view. Chellac caught his breath with excitement, because he knew what would happen next. Sure enough, the pipe flashed downward, striking the unsuspecting assassin on the head and dropping him into the gentle grass of the meadow.

  Slowly, like an image under a microscope coming into focus, [224] Regimol’s entire body shimmered into view, leaning over the would-be killer.

  Chellac ran up to him, pointing down the path. “The Bajoran—he’s been injured!”

  “Actually, Potriq is dead,” said Regimol, not taking his eyes off his prisoner, who was also Bajoran. “I’m sorry about that, but it was worth it to catch this fellow. I was afraid they would try to kill us.”

  Realization dawned on the Ferengi. “Hey, wait a minute—you used me! You knew this was a trap ... that’s why you were so nervous!”

  “I knew our former associates were not going to be here.” The thief bent over the body and began to rifle through his pockets. “It was either going to be a trap or a waste of time. They grabbed an opportunity to get rid of us for good, although this smacks more of the girl than Yorka. She must be a rich woman by now.”