PICARD ENDED his log entry with a deliberate depression of the padd controls. He didn’t welcome the destruction of Tehuán, but he couldn’t deny that the call to action was welcome. Kirlos offered neither the scientific interest of unexplored territory nor, due to the K’Vin restriction on Starfleet personnel, the distractions of a shore-leave facility. With the exception of the three members of the away team down on the planet, no one on the starship would regret leaving this place. The captain thought of Worf and revised that number to two.
“Captain to the bridge.”
Riker’s hail pulled Picard out of his reverie. “On my way, Number One,” he said, rising quickly from his desk. As he made his way to the bridge, the captain impatiently dismissed his philosophical contemplation of the Tehuán tragedy and turned his attention to more practical concerns.
“Status report?”
Riker jumped up from the captain’s chair. “Ready to break orbit as soon as the away team has been recovered.”
“What?” Picard, who had been heading for the vacated chair, came to an abrupt halt in the command center. He noted the high color creeping up his first officer’s neck, a sure sign that Riker was fighting to control his temper. “Why aren’t they aboard yet?”
“Following planetary regulations, I informed the Federation embassy that I was recalling the away team. Somehow this news reached the K’Vin embassy as well, and Gezor has objected to their unscheduled departure.”
“So?” Picard glanced impatiently at the main viewscreen. Time was of the essence in a medical assist mission, and he wanted to see deep space, not Kirlos, on that wall.
“The K’Vin have threatened that such an unwarranted action will result in a nullification of the away team’s existing petitions and will very likely result in Enterprise personnel being barred from K’Vin territory.”
“Is that all? Well, I can certainly think of worse fates,” said Picard. “Contact the transporter room and have O’Brien stand by to beam up the away team at my signal.”
“Yes, sir!”
Riker quickly lifted a hand to his communicator, but the motion was arrested by a high-pitched squeal. Everyone on the bridge winced as communications speakers crackled with a sudden burst of static; the view of Kirlos scrambled into electronic snow.
“Captain.” The tactical officer at the aft station looked up in alarm. “I’m receiving a priority intercept from—”
A pale blue Andorian appeared on the main viewscreen.
“Ambassador Stephaleh,” said Picard. His eyes widened with surprise. Until now his interactions with the Federation diplomat had been brief but informal; this interview was obviously going to be different. He knew enough about Andorians to interpret the cast of her antennae: her good humor was conspicuously absent.
“Captain Picard, I will not delay your urgent mission with social amenities; I’ll come right to the point. I would prefer that the Enterprise away team remain on Kirlos.”
Picard answered with equal directness. “I regret the inconvenience to Professor Coleridge, but I’m afraid she will just have to find another—”
“Professor Coleridge is not my concern,” said the Andorian with a twitch of her jointed antennae. “This is strictly a diplomatic matter. The K’Vin embassy has been following the progress of the archaeological excavations with great interest, and any disruption of that project will annoy their staff. I have no desire to annoy the K’Vin.”
Riker stepped up to stand by the captain. “But as far as I can tell,” he said, “the only person who seems likely to be annoyed is the administrative assistant, Gezor.”
“You are more politically naive than I realized, Commander Riker. What bothers Gezor bothers the K’Vin ambassador.”
“But these aren’t just ordinary crewmen,” objected Picard. “We’re talking about key starship personnel: my chief engineer, my chief of security, and my third-in-command.”
“And you have no relief crew for them? I hadn’t realized the Enterprise was so badly understaffed, Captain Picard. How very awkward for you.”
The ambassador’s whispery voice was capable of carrying considerable sarcasm. Picard was forcibly reminded of Stephaleh’s reputation as a tough negotiator.
“Well, of course I have a full crew complement, but I—”
“Captain, I can’t order you to leave the landing party on Kirlos. I can only stress that the de facto peace which has existed between the Federation and the K’Vin Hegemony has been maintained by a careful avoidance of conflict. I have no desire to test the strength of that relationship; it is in the best interests of galactic diplomacy that the away team remain on Kirlos.”
“My apologies, Ambassador Stephaleh.” Picard capitulated with a nod of his head. “Considering the circumstances, I will allow my people to remain on Kirlos until our return.”
Her image began to fade away immediately.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Captain.”
And she was gone.
The genial expression on Picard’s face was gone as well. He turned to his first officer. “Number One, contact the away team and inform them of our departure.”
Dropping down into his command chair, Picard issued a terse set of orders to the helm for a departure from Kirlos. Once the starship had swung free of its orbit around the planet, he designated a high warp speed and ended with a flatly uttered “Engage.”
The Enterprise shot forward into warp space. Pinpoint stars on the viewscreen were transformed into streaks of light.
Picard turned to his first officer and said, “Galactic diplomacy indeed. I wouldn’t put it past Stephaleh to be more concerned about her weekly game of dyson with Gregach. Of course, one can’t take the chance she’s telling the truth.”
Riker opened his mouth to reply, but Picard rushed on before the first officer could utter a word. “No one on board this ship, myself included, is indispensable. We can function perfectly well without the landing party. It’s the principle of the thing. I do not like abandoning members of my crew on a remote and backward planet to fend for themselves without the resources of a starship.”
This time, when the captain paused for breath, Riker was quicker to take advantage. Mischief gleamed in his eyes when he said, “I’m worried about them, too, sir. I only hope they’re still alive when we return.”
A long silence stretched out between the two officers as Picard struggled to maintain his bad humor. “Your concern is duly noted, Number One.” Picard smiled despite himself. The sting of Stephaleh’s victory was not so sharp as to obscure his reason.
After all, what could possibly go wrong on Kirlos?
It was only on very rare occasions that Geordi La Forge wondered what it would be like to be sighted. Indeed, his blindness was a part of him, and the concept of seeing as most humans did was so alien to him that he had not even been able to seize the opportunity to attain “normal” vision.
Still, every so often, when someone commented on a particular texture or hue, or when a low whistle from a crewman indicated appreciation of the curve of a woman’s hips—a curve not readily apparent in the heat-emitting images that fed Geordi’s brain—the Enterprise engineer wondered what it would be like to have normal vision.
Rarely, though, was he glad that he was blind.
This was one such occasion.
He clung desperately to the back of the speeder sled, which was racing through the streets of Kirlosia at a horrifying speed. The air whipped past him, and random profanities were shouted at him. There was nothing he could do about it—Nassa Coleridge was at the stick of the high-speed antigrav sled.
For what seemed the hundredth time, Geordi checked the strap that kept him belted in. “Professor!” he shouted. “We could slow down, you know!”
“What?”
“I said we could—forget it,” and he gave up as his words were blown back in his face.
Strapped onto the back of the sled was a case containing a vast array of archaeological equipment. When
Geordi glanced back to make sure it was still in place, he saw the other speeder sled directly behind them.
Worf was piloting it, and although Worf never smiled, Geordi could tell from the pulsing of heat through the Klingon’s body that the security chief was enjoying himself immensely.
Behind Worf, holding on securely, was Data. Geordi was quite certain that Worf was hoping to test the android’s mettle and nerve. He needn’t have bothered. Data was absolutely unflappable.
“Would you care to take the scenic route, Geordi?” the professor had asked. She had sounded ever so pleasant, ever so sweet. Geordi should have known instantly that she had something up her sleeve. But this insanity would never have occurred to him.
They shot down the Strip, inhabitants scattering. Over the rush of the air Geordi could have sworn he heard Worf actually emit a sound of amusement. Geordi had often wondered just what a Klingon might consider amusing. Now he knew.
Suddenly the sled veered off the main drag and began to dart through side streets. The streets of Kirlosia seemed mazelike to outsiders, but Nassa Coleridge navigated them with practiced ease. Geordi was grateful for all the training he had gone through in Starfleet—training that enabled him to cope with such trivialities as vertigo. Otherwise Coleridge’s zigzags would have induced a wave of nausea.
Coleridge had powered down slightly, for if she had maintained her previous speed she would no doubt have lost Worf and Data. Even so, they were just able to keep up. The decrease in speed also made conversation a bit more feasible.
“You okay, Geordi?” Coleridge called back to him.
Drawing as much air as he could into his lungs, he shouted back, “Fine, Professor!”
“Geordi, college was a long time ago,” she said. “You can call me Nassa.”
Coleridge had pulled her hair back into a chignon before mounting the sled, but several strands had come loose. As a result, when Geordi tried to reply, he got a mouthful of hair.
“Just up ahead!” she called out and pointed.
From behind them on the second scooter, Worf saw signs in several languages, all of which said the same thing: this was a K’Vin exploration area, and only authorized individuals were permitted.
Geordi looked forward to a reduction in speed, for he assumed that this was where they would be disembarking.
He thought wrong.
“There it is,” she called out with an inclination of her head. “Hole sweet hole.”
The sled suddenly angled upward sharply and Geordi gasped. “Aren’t we getting off here?”
“Gamma level is five miles down,” she replied. “I didn’t think you’d want to walk it.”
The sled dropped down like a stone, and Geordi saw a brief flash of a large hole in the ground, about a hundred feet in diameter. And then, as fast as he saw it, he was inside it.
The sides were constructed of transparent aluminum supports. Lanterns lined the walls, providing light—not that Geordi needed very much, thanks to his VISOR. Their path went down at a dizzying angle, and Geordi reflexively gripped the sides of the sled. Of course the sheer speed of the vehicle was keeping him locked in place anyway, not to mention the straps. But it was nevertheless a disconcerting experience.
Geordi felt pressure inside his ears and made rapid chewing motions to counter it.
“You’re looking at months and months of field work,” Coleridge shouted. “Impressive, isn’t it? And all along the way, we found bits and pieces of Ariantu culture. Here a cup, there a fragment of a statue. Like putting together a jigsaw puzzle that, when complete, will give us a picture of a long-gone civilization.”
“And . . . and what is that picture?” shouted Geordi, trying to concentrate on something besides the idea that they might wind up smeared along the insides of the tunnel.
“Mostly a verification of what the K’Vin culture remembers about the Ariantu,” she replied. “They—Hold on.”
She banked around a sharp curve and Geordi gasped.
As if it hadn’t been close at all, Nassa continued calmly, “The Ariantu were a predatory race, very aggressive. The current anthropological theory holds that they might be distantly related to the Om’raii.”
“Oh?”
“In many respects, yes. Much more warlike than the Om’raii, though. K’Vin legend makes reference to groups of Ariantu known as paacs.” She spelled the word.
“Not p-a-x,” Geordi observed, clutching the sides of the sled. Was it only wishful thinking, or were they beginning to slow down?
“Latin for ‘peace’? No, definitely not that. Most of the shards we found were either from statues of warriors or from weapons. Hold on.”
“I’ve been holding on.”
“Good. We’re coming in for a landing.”
The tunnel opened up, and the sled veered gracefully to the right. Moments ago they had been surrounded by tunnel, and Geordi was stunned by the change.
All around them were catwalks and cross corridors, stretching to the left and right as far as the eye—or the VISOR—could see. Also Geordi could now sense a slow, steady pulsing. All around him were huge banks of complicated machinery. He gasped, for the engine area appeared to be miles long, and the technological devices were sophisticated far beyond anything he had ever seen before. At a glance he was able to guess the basic functions of some of the machines, but he realized that he could easily spend years down here and barely begin to understand all of the equipment.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Coleridge asked. The sled was barely moving now as she cruised slowly toward a large ramp.
“To say the least,” Geordi said in awe. “Where is this place?”
“This is the gamma level.”
“Surface is alpha, Kirlosia is beta, this is gamma. I’m starting to detect a pattern.”
“Good lad.”
The sled moved onto the ramp, and after gunning the engine one more time—for effect, Geordi suspected—Coleridge shut it off. As she walked around back to unstrap the equipment, Geordi heard the soft thrumming of the other sled’s engine. Worf confidently maneuvered it along the ramp and brought it to a stop next to Coleridge’s.
“Any problem keeping up, Lieutenant?” Coleridge said teasingly.
“None” was Worf’s stiff response. “Although your leadership was somewhat . . . aggressive.”
“ ‘A leader has to lead,’ ” said Coleridge, slinging the equipment onto her back. She didn’t ask for help, nor did she seem remotely interested in acquiring it, so Geordi didn’t offer. “John F. Kennedy said that,” the professor added.
“Harry S Truman,” replied Data, stepping off the sled.
She eyed him askance. “I was pretty certain it was President Kennedy.”
“ ‘A leader has to lead, or otherwise he has no business in politics.’ Harry Truman, born 1884, died 1972. He ascended to the presidency on April—”
“Fine,” said Coleridge, smiling and putting up her hands. “You win.” And out of the side of her mouth she said to Geordi, “Is he like this all the time?”
“Yes.”
“How do you stand it?”
“Patience. A lot of patience.”
“Uh-huh.” She gestured. “We are now five miles below Kirlosia. This entire area is an engineer’s dream. You’re looking at the guts of Kirlos—as near as we can tell, at any rate.”
“This is the equipment that keeps Kirlos going.”
She nodded. “We didn’t find it any too soon, either. Much of it was running down. Air filtration, gravity—everything that you take for granted in a natural world but you have to create for an artificial one—comes from here. It’s been in operation for who knows how long. We did the maintenance that was required and basically saved Kirlos.”
“So now what? This is where you’re digging?”
“No. I’ll show you where. Come on.”
She started down a ramp, walking so briskly that Geordi had to run to keep up with her. He was amazed. The woman had to be twenty years his
senior. “You’re keeping yourself fit, Nassa,” he huffed.
“Zan says I’m obsessive about it,” she replied without turning.
“Zan”—he paused—“was your husband, right?”
“Right.”
“But you spoke of him in the present tense. Pardon for asking, but isn’t he—”
“Dead, yes. That’s right.”
Their booted feet clacked on the metal ramp. From all around them Geordi got a growing sense of the power needed to run the planet. Everything seemed to be throbbing with energy.
From behind them Data said, “I do not understand why you would speak of your deceased husband in the present tense. That shows an alarming misperception of reality.”
“Data!” said Geordi sharply.
But Nassa Coleridge laughed that pleasant, deep laugh of hers. “I perceive reality just fine, Mr. Data. I like to speak of Zan that way. It makes me feel closer to him. But believe me, I know he’s gone. Stupid accident.” She shook her head. “You change your life for someone, and then he goes and dies.”
“How did you change your life?” Data asked.
Geordi stopped, turned, and said in a low voice, “Data, I really don’t think that’s any of our business. Do you?”
Data was about to respond, but Coleridge, who was still proceeding at a brisk clip, called back, “Honestly, Geordi, you don’t have to be quite so defensive of me. I don’t mind answering Data’s endless questions.
“I started out as a field worker in archaeology, Data,” she continued as they hurried to keep up with her. Even Worf was impressed by the speed of the cocoa-skinned woman. “I was plain old Nassa Gant when I met Zan Coleridge, a scholarly and loving man who had no interest in field work at all. University life, that was for him. And I loved him enough to convince myself that I could be happy teaching. So I married him and spent ten years of my life training others to do what I loved.”
DOOMSDAY WORLD Page 4
