“Ah, so that’s what happened to Admiral Nechayev,” said La Forge. “She was a casualty from that attack.” He explained what he had done to keep her alive during those first terrible minutes after the Genesis Wave had swept across Myrmidon.
“How did they get there?” asked Commander Jagron. “These parasites.”
Data answered, “I believe they were created as part of the Genesis matrix. They were programmed to be grown on the planet, along with an environment to serve them. It is a rather cost-efficient way of colonizing.”
“Procreation and colonization in one easy step,” said Picard, his lips thinning in anger. “Our enemy has achieved the ultimate use of Genesis, but they can’t plan for everything. The Bolians weren’t supposed to be there after the wave swept through, so now they have to deal with them.”
La Forge let out a troubled sigh. “Since our shelters were successful, there must be millions of people stranded on Myrmidon with those things. We have to save them!”
The engineer snapped his fingers and staggered to his feet. “What about environmental suits? Unless we breathe this fungus, we won’t be infected, right? Can’t we go down there in suits and be safe?”
Data shook his head. “I would not risk it. It is my theory that the fungus enhances the effect of their telepathic abilities, so an environmental suit would not offer full protection. Furthermore we have no idea how numerous they are—they could number into the billions and have a telepathic group mind. The D’Arvuk has a limited number of crew and the ability to transport only one person at a time. Searching and clearing huge tracts of forests of an ambulatory plant is an undertaking that would require years, even with unlimited resources.”
“But we can’t just leave them down there!” countered Geordi. He began to pace, remembering why he had wanted to be rescued so badly. “Captain, I’ve got something else to tell you.”
“Go on.”
La Forge gulped and spoke the words that would probably end this rescue mission and doom Dolores and the others to their fate. “I think I know how to stop the Genesis Wave.”
The Sanctuary of the First Mother looked like a golden pillow dropped into an overgrown weed patch. A lone blue-skinned figure could be seen walking around its perimeter, chopping back the greedy underbrush just enough to get past. He wielded a kind of Bolian scythe called a purka, which made short work of all but the thickest branches. Even though he was working hard to keep the path clear, Mot still shivered and had to pull his jacket more tightly around his shoulders. It would be dark very soon, he thought with trepidation.
Solely because of his casual connection to Starfleet, the barber had become the de facto leader of this dispirited throng of forty-five thousand souls. He was setting an example by taking the night’s first patrol around their perimeter, although the worst threats seemed to be hunger and depression. He was afraid that many of his fellow Bolians would resort to suicide if they grew too despondent.
Some of the animals were stuck outside with him, tethered and crying forlornly. A few of the younger and hardier survivors had ventured off on their own, trying to find someplace better. Mot didn’t know about that, but he was sure they could find a place less crowded. It was even more chaotic inside the sanctuary, with the Mother who was ostensibly in charge more worried about protecting the Crown than her congregation. In fact, she had run off into the forest to hide the relic. At least, thought Mot, he had used his status to get his parents private quarters in a closet off the attic. He couldn’t do much else for them.
With his scythe, he hacked at the thickets and vines, releasing sticky sap that smelled like black hair dye. “Damn this stuff,” Mot cursed, panting heavily. “It’s worse than cutting a Tellarite’s beard!”
He began to get discouraged when he found himself battling the same brush he had cut back only an hour ago. The rampant growth was determined to claim the sanctuary, and he had no doubt that it would, given time. Already moss-laden trees towered over the dome, and vines were crawling up its golden inlay.
“Where’s Starfleet?” he wondered aloud. The unfortunate and obvious answer was that they were probably setting up more shelters on other endangered planets. Those poor souls had no idea what was in store for them. If they knew ... the suicide count would be in the billions. His mind wandering, Mot wasn’t paying attention, and his sleeve got caught in a mass of thorns. He cursed loudly as he tried to extricate himself, but the vines seemed to have eyes as they pricked his limbs and snared his clothing.
“Just relax, Son,” said a soothing voice.
Mot looked up to see his roly-poly mother, smiling benignly at him. “Mama! What are you doing out here?” He tried to restore some dignity to his pose, but that was difficult while caught in a thicket.
She moved toward him, shuffling slowly, as anyone would in this godforsaken place. Smiling fondly, the elder Bolian reached up and tweaked his cheek. “Oh, you’re so funny, my little Teeko Bean.”
He blushed, his blue skin turning purple. “You haven’t called me that in years.”
“Give us a little kiss,” she cooed, standing on her tiptoes and puckering her dark-blue lips.
This moment of tenderness seemed to be wildly inappropriate under the circumstances, but how could he refuse his mother? Everyone was going a little crazy out here, including him and his parents. Besides, the shivers had finally left him, and Mot felt oddly warm in his mother’s presence.
“That’s a good boy,” she said, pulling his face closer to hers. His mother smelled like powder scented with lollo blossoms, a scent he always associated with her. Mot took a deep, heady breath, and he was soon lost in her comforting embrace.
eight
“Mr. Mot!” called a voice, barely breaking into the barber’s consciousness. “I apologize for this.”
The first phaser beam struck the Bolian in the back, and he dropped to the ground like a big blue avalanche. Data stepped closer, adjusting the setting on his phaser pistol, and the moss creature flinched just before he blasted it into confetti with his second shot. As he holstered his weapon, gray tendrils floated down from the dark sky like feathers.
The android glanced around the ragged path that surrounded the dome, but he saw no more of the shambling plants, or any survivors. A quick tricorder reading assured him that most of the survivors were safely ensconced inside the domed sanctuary, although there were some animals at risk by the front door. Data picked up the big Bolian and slung him over his shoulder as if he were an old coat, then he took several tremendous leaps along the path and arrived at the front entrance.
As Data had feared, moss creatures were draped all over the domestic animals. Some animals were standing, some were lying on the ground, snoring, but all seemed to be in bliss. The android set Mot on the ground, propped him up against the building, then drew his phaser. With pinpoint accuracy, he drilled the parasites until there was barely enough left of them to brush off with his hand.
By that time, he heard a groaning sound, and Data turned to see the Bolian coming to his senses. “Mr. Mot,” he said, kneeling beside him, “I am sorry I had to stun you, but I have discovered that a mild stun works as a sort of reset for humanoids. When they regain consciousness, the hypnotic effect of the fungus has been alleviated.”
“What?” asked Mot, blinking puzzledly at the android. “What fungus?”
“That was not an acquaintance you were kissing—it was a creature native to this new planet. A very dangerous creature.” Data took a padd from a bag on his waist and handed the electronic device to the startled barber. “I do not have time to explain, but all the information we have is there. Barricade yourselves inside this building and do not allow anyone to enter, no matter who you think they are.”
“But ... but we’ve got people out there!” Mot pointed helplessly into the gloom.
Calmly, Data placed his phaser pistol in the Bolian’s outstretched hand, then he handed him a bundle of three more phasers. “If you are in doubt, shoot them with a
mild stun. A true humanoid will fall unconscious for a short period but will not be harmed. If the stun has no effect, increase the phaser setting. These parasites are the enemy, probably the ones responsible for the Genesis Wave. Do you understand?”
His mouth hanging open, Mot nodded. “Right ... parasites are the enemy.”
Data rose to his feet and concluded, “Excuse me, I have many shelters to visit and only one shuttlecraft for transportation. Take heart, Mr. Mot, because you have not been deserted.”
The android tapped his combadge and disappeared in the shimmering halo of a transporter beam. Mot looked warily at the foggy woods, the sleeping animals, and the sprigs of moss scattered on the ground. Clutching the padd and the phaser, he lumbered to his feet and dashed inside.
First officer Maltz eyed the star chart on the battle display, which was centrally located on the bridge of the HoS. The three-dimensional hologram showed an undistinguished stretch of space with no class-M planets and vast pockets of asteroids and dust. In distant epochs, those celestial graveyards had been stars or giant planets, thought Leah Brahms. It was an old part of space, and it looked it—used and worn out.
“Magnification by four,” ordered Maltz, and a young officer at the tactical station hurriedly made the adjustment from his console. Leah was surprised by how little the Klingons used the ship’s computer. It was as capable as those in Starfleet, but it seemed to be an adjunct to hands-on operation. Almost every system on the ship could be operated manually, including hand-pumped hydraulics to keep life-support going on the bridge. No wonder Klingon ships were notoriously tough to bring down.
A fist encased in a studded gauntlet jabbed into the middle of the display. “There it is,” growled Maltz, “Lomar, class-L. According to our records, the last time it was explored by anybody of note was two hundred years ago. We have it lumped in with a million other planets nobody wants.”
Leah frowned at the chart hovering in the air. “It doesn’t look very promising, does it? But it’s not far away from the Boneyard. Only two light-years.”
“It’s not too late to change course and go to the Boneyard,” the crusty Klingon said. “We wouldn’t lose much time.”
Leah realized that once she made a decision, she had to stick with it, unless she was proven dead wrong. She couldn’t give this crew even the slightest opportunity to question her orders. However, they did deserve an explanation.
“I’ve been thinking about the whole issue of the wave’s origin,” she began. “I wonder if we haven’t been operating from a misconception. This doesn’t have to be a continuous wave beamed from a fixed point, as we’ve assumed. It could have been launched with one massive burst. Then it would be like a tidal wave. It passes through and leaves behind refuse and wreckage, but life resumes.”
“Some cowardly form of life,” grumbled Maltz.
“Yes, they’re cowards,” agreed Brahms, “so they’ve probably covered their tracks by now. I doubt if there’s anything left to find in the Boneyard, and that’s why we don’t see anything on our sensors.”
Maltz’s rheumy eyes narrowed. “Then what happened to the task force Starfleet sent there?”
“I don’t know, but I do know one thing—I’m not going to blunder into danger like they did.” Leah Brahms leaned over the chart and studied the unfamiliar legends in an alphabet she was just starting to understand. “We need to gather information before we go there. What’s the closest inhabited planet or outpost? Maybe somebody nearby knows something about Lomar.”
“Here,” said Maltz, running his hand across a membrane keypad and shifting the view to a neighboring solar system. “There’s not much, except for this dilithium mining colony, Protus. It’s on the biggest asteroid in the sector—a planetoid. Freighters from Protus used to stop at Hakon, and I know there are freelance miners and prospectors there. Perhaps some of them have taken side trips to Lomar.”
“We need more information than what’s in this database,” Brahms said with frustration. “I’m not comfortable with just showing up at this planet.”
Maltz scratched his stubbled white beard and narrowed his eyes at her. “Captain, you know that every minute we delay, the more of your worlds and people die.”
“I’m aware of that,” Leah Brahms answered, her blue eyes growing as cold as comets. Once again, she tried to muster the resolve and confidence of Admiral Nechayev. “If we fail, their deaths will be in vain. I can’t be sure that anyone else will have a chance to stop them, so it’s up to us. You have your coordinates, Mr. Maltz.”
“Yes, sir.” The old Klingon turned toward the row of consoles behind him. “Helm, prepare to change course.”
“Change course now,” ordered Commander Riker, sitting imperiously in the command chair at the center of the Enterprise bridge.
“Yes, sir,” answered the officer on the conn, a female Antosian. “Course laid in for Lomar.”
Deanna Troi lay huddled in a corner of the bridge near the door to the captain’s ready room, shivering, and feeling violently ill. For over an hour, ever since Will Riker had strode confidently onto the bridge, she had been sick and bewildered. It was as if she had an instant allergic reaction to him ... her Imzadi! But it was worse than that—it was as if neither her mind nor her body could function in his presence.
Deanna realized that she had been feeling mentally fogged ever since her concussion ... especially after the Neptune crew were brought aboard. When Troi pried open her eyes, she could barely focus on Riker anymore—he looked blurry and indistinct.
Despite the heaves in her stomach and wracking cramps, she tried to remain still, so they wouldn’t know she was awake. Not that she posed much of a threat to this person who had calmly taken over the ship. Just looking at him gave her a severe headache. Her reaction was the complete opposite of the rest of the bridge crew however; they were prepared to follow him anywhere.
He had shut down the ship’s internal and outside communications, locked all doors and turbolifts, secured everyone and everything where they were, and had done so with enormous efficiency. Why Will had to do this was a puzzlement, because he was already acting captain of the Enterprise. In fact, she doubted if anyone in the crew knew anything was wrong. There were variations of red alert, where the bridge crew assumed command of every system and locked everything down. They were just dutifully following orders ... orders that made no sense to Troi. Maybe she had misunderstood, but why should they go to a planet named Lomar?
The others kept talking, but she could barely hear them for all the pain and fuzziness that filled her head. Still she knew she had to do something. Just beyond the door to the ready room, which had been sealed along with the others, was an access panel to a Jefferies tube. Those crawl shafts would be the only means of getting around the ship until normal operations were resumed. But getting there, opening the panel, and crawling out seemed impossible to Deanna, who could barely lift her head off the deck.
Thinking and analysis seemed to clear her head a bit, and she decided that most of the damage being inflicted upon her was mental, not physical. His effect on the others was complete control, but she had the opposite reaction—revulsion, physical and mental. If they were in control of their minds, she reasoned, wouldn’t they question having a senior officer cowering in the corner? But they didn’t even seem to notice her.
While the bridge crew was busy making the course change, which seemed to take them longer than usual, Troi tried to quell the roiling in her gut. I’m in control, she told herself. She wanted to strike back mentally, but she didn’t want to alert him. He was occupied for the moment, and it had been a long time since any of the rest had paid much attention to her.
Mustering all her strength and resolve, Troi rose to a crouch and leaped toward the access panel, grabbing the handles and ripping it open as she skidded past.
Riker leaped to his feet and pointed at her. “Tactical, stop that woman! Use your phaser.”
Troi crawled into the opening just as the
officer drew his weapon and fired. The phaser beam struck the top of the hatch, bombarding her with flaming sparks of molten metal, but she pulled herself through and dropped feetfirst into the tube. As she bounded down the ladder, Troi heard shouts and commotion above her, but her pursuers weren’t fast enough to catch her. She reached the next level, kicked the access panel open, and tumbled into a corridor.
To her relief, the farther away from the bridge she got, the faster both her head and her nausea cleared. Troi was feeling hung-over but almost herself when she rounded a corner in the passageway and ran into two shipmates. They were security officers, and she recognized them immediately. “Help me!” she pleaded. “They’ve taken over the ship. It’s not Commander Riker up there ... something is wrong. But we can retake the ship—”
A hulking security guard glowered at her and took a step forward. “That’s what the commander said ... a mutineer.”
“Apprehend her,” his comrade answered, drawing his phaser.
Without thinking, Deanna put a palm strike right in the chest of the closest officer and sent him sprawling into the one with the phaser. She dashed down the hallway and squeezed around the corner just as a red beam streaked past. Stretching flat-out, Troi dove headfirst toward the open access panel and gripped the opening with her fingertips as she slid past. Hearing footsteps behind her, Deanna ducked into the Jefferies tube just as her pursuers rounded the corner and squeezed off another beam.
Now she dropped faster than ever through the bowels of the ship, not stopping until another phaser beam streaked past her from overhead, barely missing. Without knowing where she was, Deanna jumped into an adjoining passageway, heading horizontally through the ship. How far does his control reach? she wondered in a panic. Where can I go to find help?
The more her mind cleared, the more absurd the whole thing seemed. Why was Will Riker commandeering the ship, when he had control of it, anyway? The answer was that he wanted to do something so out of character that the crew would resist his orders. Deserting the captain and Data to go to Lomar—wherever that was—certainly qualified.
STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book Two Page 9
