On the simulation, a red beam entered the Ring of Fire, and the admiral held her breath again. The image flickered for a moment—probably the real moment when the wave hit the ring—then the red beam went streaking off at a different angle. It blinked as it headed toward the dark desert in the sea of stars, the Coal Sack.
Still Nechayev didn’t let out her breath, because these were only simulations—the real wave may not have behaved that way. She rushed back to the master console. Before she even sat down, the captain’s voice sounded on the shipwide intercom:
“Mission achieved. The Genesis Wave has been diverted. Earth is saved!”
With a grin, Nechayev slumped into her seat, hearing in her mind the cheers that went up all over the ship—in every ship. The Romulans probably looked smug and rolled their eyes, but she was certain the Klingons were cheering. They loved a victory against overwhelming odds, and they loved the moment when the tide turned in battle.
She banged on her console and said, “Nechayev to Tactical Command, Ring of Fire.”
“Yes, Admiral,” came the prompt response. “Admiral Horkin here. Congratulations, gutsy call. Maybe they’ll let you retire now.”
“Don’t count on it,” she snapped. “Is the wave past, or is it continuous?”
“Sensors show it’s past—nothing left but the residue we’ve seen before.”
“Good, then we can start the cleanup. I know we diverted the wave, but did we also narrow it?”
“Affirmative on that,” answered her fellow admiral. “It’s on course to the Furnace, and we’ve diverted all traffic from its path. Worked like a charm.”
“That’s enough patting ourselves on the back,” said Nechayev brusquely. “Get those fleets dispatched—lots of survivors need them.”
“Yes, sir. And now you’ll check yourself into sickbay, and get the care you need?” he asked hopefully.
“Not yet,” answered Nechayev. “I’ve got a comrade out there, and I’m going to help him. Picard and I have had our differences, but if anybody is going to find the root of this evil, he will. It’s time to go on the offensive. Nechayev out.”
With a smile, she added, “Computer, cancel message to Admiral Brud’khi.”
“Acknowledged.”
A satisfied smile on her face, Admiral Nechayev rose to her feet and considered the holographic charts gleaming overhead, especially the red streak that represented the Genesis Wave. Without warning, the red beam went dim and faded away. Nechayev rushed back to the master console just as her combadge chirped.
“Nechayev here,” she answered impatiently.
“This is Admiral Horkin again. I don’t know if you noticed, but—”
“I did.”
“Okay, then you won’t be surprised to learn that the Genesis Wave just died.”
“Died? Be more specific.”
Horkin’s words spilled out. “We’ve got the top minds here, including a Vulcan who has seen this wave before, and she feels that the Genesis Wave has expanded to its utmost potential. It weakened to the point where it dissipated, except for the unpleasant residual side effects we’ve seen.”
Nechayev gulped and sank down onto the chair. “Are you telling me that all of this was for nothing? That the wave was going to dissipate, anyway?”
“That’s the way it looks,” said the admiral, “although our actions may have hastened it. Alynna, that residual could have wreaked a lot of damage on Earth. You still did the right thing.”
“I wonder,” rasped the admiral. “Have I left them hanging out there all alone?”
* * *
In Beverly Crusher’s research laboratory off sickbay, Captain Picard studied a clump of moss growing on a miniature willow tree. The moss didn’t look deadly, but it was ensconced in its own octagonal growing chamber, transparent and totally self-contained. He could inspect the soil and the root system of the tree, thinking they looked healthy, but the moss hung on the branches like an evil fog. It took some intestinal fortitude, but Picard lowered his head close enough go nose-to-nose with the innocuous-looking plant.
“Go ahead, it won’t bite you,” said Beverly Crusher with a smile. “The chamber is protected by biofilters and force fields. In fact, we’ve updated all the ship’s biofilters for the moss, the fungus, and the spores.”
“It’s hard to imagine that this little plant nearly brought the Federation to its knees,” said Picard with amazement. “Where did you get it?”
“It’s a sample that Data picked up on Myrmidon,” answered Crusher. “I don’t know if it always grows this quickly, or whether accelerated growth is a by-product of the Genesis Effect—but a day or so ago that plant was just a little sprig the size of your finger.”
The clump of moss moved slightly, causing Picard to jump back. Beverly chuckled and tried to wipe the smile off her face. “I should have warned you about that. In its waking state, the plant is ambulatory. It’s nurtured by a tree until it’s the equivalent of an adult, then it goes searching for a meatier host. I don’t need to tell you, that’s when it’s dangerous. I think it’s warming up to go hunting for a new host.”
“I’d like to post a guard on it,” said Picard. “Around the clock.”
Beverly frowned. “You know, I’m not real fond of having security in sickbay, but in this case—”
“They’ll be here as soon as I leave.” Picard bent closer to the plant, still keeping his distance. “Can it read our minds now, do you think?”
The doctor shook her head. “I don’t know. Everything this creature does is parasitic—for its own survival, no one else’s. The fungus, the telepathy, they’re very impressive; but I don’t know how much is learned behavior and how much is instinctive. You would think that an individual who could infiltrate a starship, posing as a crewman, would have undergone special training. In our culture, they would have to.”
Crusher gazed at the twitching parasite. “Then again, maybe it’s born with enough skills to dig into your mind and impersonate a loved one.”
Picard smiled sympathetically at Crusher. “You weren’t the only one who was fooled. In order to develop these specialized traits, it must have preyed on humanoids and large animals for millions of years.”
“Enslaved them, then preyed on them,” said Beverly somberly. “I don’t think they’re handy with tools, but they could easily enslave a whole population of humanoids to do their bidding. I’m very worried about the survivors on Myrmidon ... and anywhere else we’ve left these things.”
“However, when they created their dream world, they didn’t program humanoids into the matrix,” Picard said curiously. “From all reports, the animal life was decidedly sluggish and low level.”
Crusher’s jaw clenched, and she gazed with hatred at the plant. “I think they consider humanoids to be decidedly sluggish and low level.”
“How do they reproduce?” asked Picard, trying to change the subject.
“I know they don’t grow from a seed. Probably a spore. Of course, this one’s mommy was the Genesis Wave.”
Picard frowned at the captive. “When it gets larger, what are we going to do with it?”
“What do we always do with alien life?” asked Crusher. “We should try to communicate with it. Telepathically.”
The captain looked at her. “Do you mean Counselor Troi?”
“We don’t have any Vulcans on board,” she said with a shrug. “Besides, I wouldn’t allow anyone else to touch it or breathe the same air. But imagine, Jean-Luc. These creatures had the means to imprint billions and billions of their offspring with whatever they wanted them to know. What is that knowledge? Until a week ago, we didn’t even know they existed, yet they stole our technology and used it against us.”
Beverly’s eyes grew distant as she stared at the moss. “On Myrmidon, people are burning them up ... for their own survival. It makes you wonder who’s the parasite, and who’s not.”
“We never would have used the Genesis technology the way they did,” answer
ed Picard. “Then again, who’s to say what we would do under desperate circumstances? Maybe the council was right ninety years ago when they tried to keep it secret. This technology is not safe in anyone’s hands.”
“It really is playing God,” agreed Beverly, her gaze returning to the innocuous clump of gray moss. “Right down to making the inhabitants in your own image.”
The captain’s combadge chirped, and a voice said, “Riker to Picard.”
“Picard here.”
“We’ve reached the Boneyard, Captain,” said the first officer. “The D’Arvuk is coming out of warp right behind us.”
“Short-range scans?” asked the captain.
“There doesn’t appear to be anything unusual, but it’s a big asteroid field.”
“I’m on my way to the bridge,” said the captain. “Send a three-person security detail to the research lab in sickbay. The doctor is growing one of the moss creatures there, and I want it watched. Picard out.”
He headed for the door, then glanced back at Beverly and the octagonal chamber. “I’ll talk to Troi about helping us communicate with it, but I won’t take any unnecessary risks where these creatures are concerned.”
“Understood,” said Crusher. “See you at dinner.”
After the captain left, Dr. Crusher picked up her tricorder and began checking the health of the willow tree. For a host plant, it wasn’t doing badly, she decided; it might even live if the moss left it to pursue another host. But the young tree would certainly die if left alone with the growing parasite.
She looked up from her tricorder and gasped with shock, dropping the handheld device to the deck. Inside the chamber, it wasn’t a tree and a clump of moss anymore—it was an innocent baby hanging by intravenous tubes! Unmistakably, she recognized the helpless infant trapped inside the chamber.
“Wesley!” she cried, pressing her face against the transparent case. Finally she shook her head and pulled away, knowing she had to be hallucinating. With a tremendous force of will, Beverly Crusher rushed out of the room and banged a wall panel to shut the door behind her.
As she was catching her breath, three security officers entered sickbay, asked for directions, and were sent her way. Crusher had a moment to compose herself before the security detail reached her.
“Dr. Crusher,” said the ranking officer, “Lieutenant Kraner at your service.”
She pointed to the door. “Guard this laboratory. Nobody goes in or out without my personal approval. That includes you.”
The young lieutenant gulped. “Why, is something dangerous in there?”
“Yes.” Crusher shivered as she looked back at the door. “By the way, don’t let me go in there alone. If I want to go in there, insist upon accompanying me.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant answered uncertainly.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be sleeping here in sickbay,” said Beverly, striding toward her office. “I won’t be hard to find. Don’t let that door open.”
“No, sir, we won’t.” The young lieutenant glanced at his comrades and gulped. “You heard what the doctor said. Look alive.”
Geordi La Forge sat back in his seat, grinning broadly. Dolores Linton’s face was on his screen at his desk in engineering, and the muscular geologist was talking a kilometer a minute. “So, Geordi, there I was, with this stuff growing all over me—yuck!—and Data comes along and saves my life!”
“Actually,” Data said, sitting beside her on the shuttlecraft, “you were trying to bite my face.”
“I’m sorry,” she replied, “but I was having a really bad day. Anyway, this stuff was growing everywhere, and I was like a zombie. But Data brought me back. For once, I was glad to get off solid land and onto a creaky ship.”
“Data saved my life on Myrmidon, too,” replied Geordi. “He’s a handy fellow to have around.”
The android smiled modestly, then turned serious. “Unfortunately, there are millions we could not save. I hope help arrives in time. Do you know about the fires on Myrmidon?”
La Forge nodded. “I haven’t had much to do except to keep track of dispatches back and forth. I’m sure glad the Genesis Wave faded, whatever part we had in that.”
“An ironic end,” observed Data. “But is it over? There is always the possibility our enemy may deploy the wave again.”
“That’s why we need you back here, Data,” said the android’s best friend. “The captain says we’re going to wait at the Boneyard until you get back, but no longer. When is your ETA?”
“Three hours and fifty-two minutes,” Data answered precisely.
“Geordi,” said Dolores, leaning forward, “have you heard anything about Leah Brahms?”
He shook his head and tried not to show how concerned he was. “No, not a peep. She’s not on a Starfleet vessel anymore. I’ve heard she’s on a Klingon privateer, which is supposed to be in the area. If that’s true, she’s on her own. But if we hear from her, I’ll let you know.”
“Good to see you, Geordi,” Dolores said with heartfelt sincerity.
“Look me up as soon as you get on board,” said La Forge. “Out.”
His screen reverted to a Starfleet logo, and the chief engineer sat back in his chair, frowning. If Leah was somewhere in the area, he sure wanted to find her. It was a big relief that Dolores was safe again, because he felt responsible for leaving her on Myrmidon ... or letting her out of his sight. He wished he could’ve kept Leah Brahms in sight, too, but he had no control over her. If only he could see Leah one more time, maybe he would finally get it through his skull that she didn’t love him, that they weren’t going anywhere.
“Sir, here are the recalibration reports on the forward impulse thrusters,” a nasally voice said, breaking him out of his reverie.
La Forge looked up to see a young ensign, a Benzite named Mahzanor. “You requested these as soon as possible,” the ensign insisted, thrusting the padd toward him.
“Thank you.” La Forge mustered a courteous nod, took the padd, and tried to read the missive. But he couldn’t concentrate. He tugged at his collar. “I’ll get back to you later. What’s the temperature in here?”
The Benzite peered curiously at him. “Are you feeling all right, Commander?”
“Not entirely.” La Forge rose to his feet at the instant that the ship was rocked by what felt like a strong jolt. He staggered to stay upright, although Mahzanor seemed to have no such trouble. The ensign reached out to steady La Forge, but Geordi’s legs suddenly lurched out from under him. The office was spinning all around his ocular implants, and La Forge pitched to the deck with a dull thud.
eighteen
Roaring talons of flame curled upward from the tops of the trees, sending billows of black smoke hurling into the befouled atmosphere. The stench on Myrmidon was wretched, the air was as thick as a sandstorm, and the heat was like a blast furnace. The underbrush burned with an ethereal white flame, aided by geysers of methane covering the ground like a foggy napalm. Nothing could live in this inferno except for the scattered handfuls of Bolians who crawled into the cesspools, fighting the salamanders and lizards for shelter from the flames.
Mot grabbed one of the squirming monstrosities by the gills and slammed it onto the bank. With fury and primitive rage, the big Bolian throttled the man-sized amphibian until he broke its neck with a loud snap. The flapping tail and limbs finally went still. Behind him, he heard his mother weeping, while his father tried to comfort her—but that wasn’t easy when they were submerged in a murky swamp full of squirming horrors.
There were more shouts and shrieks as the others in their wretched party battled with the rightful denizens of the swamp.
One of the females had a slithering thing wrapped around her throat, another was trying to pry it off, while a third bashed its head with a stick. They finally pried the thing loose and heaved it into the blazing bushes. With the rage of the dispossessed, the Bolians battled the amphibians, either driving them away or killing them, until they finally took posses
sion of the dank pool.
The leeches and sucker fish still plagued them, eliciting the occasional scream, but the largest of the beasts were gone. The flames and heat were so intense that they could see each other’s blistered blue faces as if it were daylight, but the sky was as dark as the blackest night. They cowered in the brackish water, barely opening their eyes to watch the conflagration. They didn’t need to see it—they could feel it. Mot hugged his parents as they all gasped for breath, trying to steal some oxygen away from the inferno.
Like a slow version of the Genesis Wave, the snorting fire finally moved on, leaving behind a dark, mutated version of what had been there before. Instead of the towering trees, now there were just spindly, black sticks, denuded of branches, leaves, and the moss. The underbrush was completely blackened, and the crunchy remains crumbled into ash at the slightest touch. Smoke continued to swirl over the devastated forest, blocking out all light and making it so dark that it felt like the end of the world.
That should suit those monsters!” muttered a woman, whose voice quickly degenerated into a coughing fit. Some of the other survivors managed raspy, hoarse laughs of appreciation, but Mot could only wheeze. For the second time in a week, Myrmidon had been destroyed in order to save it. They seemed to have been successful, but that didn’t afford him any consolation.
Gingerly, Mot let go of his parents, who still clung to each other in wide-eyed shock. Like him, they were amazed just to be alive. The sight of the charred forest and smoldering ground only added to the surreal sense of déjà vu. It was hard to tell if this sooty winter was better or worse than the gloomy forest it had replaced. It still seemed like one big nightmare.
Mot’s lungs were sore from breathing smoky air—what little there was of it—and he wondered how long the planet’s oxygen would hold out. One thing was certain, they couldn’t breathe methane.
Coughing and wheezing, Mot dragged himself out of the mire and pulled his muddy body across the ash and stubble until he flopped with exhaustion on top of a rock. The rock was covered in black soot, and it only added to the bedraggled mess he was—a pathetic creature without enough strength left to pull a leech off his cheek.
STAR TREK: TNG - The Genesis Wave, Book Two Page 19
