She paused, turned, and Geordi stopped in surprise as she patted him on the cheek. “That’s where I met this young chap. You don’t mind if I tell them, do you, Geordi?” Without waiting for him to respond she continued, “Geordi came to the university, unsure of what he wanted to do with his life. He took my course and came that close”—she brought her thumb and forefinger together—“to becoming an archaeologist.”
“Can you blame me?” Geordi said with a smile. “You had a knack for making it sound fascinating.”
“And so it was, for me,” she replied. She started walking again. Geordi fleetingly wondered just how far down they were going.
As if she had read his mind, Nassa said, “We’re only going a hundred feet down. It’s just that the ramps curve so damned much. Look.” She pointed upward, and Geordi looked at the route they had followed. Sure enough, they had spent most of their time going from side to side. The ramps’ angle of progression was very slight.
“Anyway,” she continued, “the problem is that most of archaeology can be pretty boring. I felt Geordi was a bit too aggressive and exploratory to fully appreciate the joy of finding one pottery shard after thirty days of digging. Starfleet seemed more in keeping with his nature, and I steered him in that direction.”
Geordi was inclined to amend that, for a number of people and factors had influenced his choice of Starfleet as a career. Still, Nassa Coleridge had been a major element in the equation, and he saw no reason to contradict her. So he smiled and said, “I always did crave excitement.”
“And then, some years back, Zan was killed in that accident.”
“What was the nature of it?” asked Data.
She paused and for the first time sounded just a bit melancholy. “Traffic,” she said. “I’d really rather not discuss it, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” said Data softly. Geordi was mildly surprised. Did Data understand that sometimes grief wasn’t easy to get over? It was, after all, a distinctively human attribute. It could be that his android friend was coming along rather nicely in the emotions department.
Nassa reached up and unpinned her chignon. She shook her head, and the black hair tumbled about her shoulders. “With Zan gone, there was nothing left to hold me there. So I left my teaching post to return to field work. Ah, here we are.”
She had arrived at a low doorway, which she had to duck to get under. Geordi did not, reminding him once again of the woman’s not inconsiderable height. Data didn’t have to duck, either, but Worf most certainly did.
They went through a darkened passageway that was only a few yards long, and then Coleridge vanished through the other end. Just before Geordi got there he heard her say, “Here we are,” and her voice seemed to echo slightly, as if she had spoken from a much larger room.
He stepped out right behind her and stopped, amazed. “Much larger” was hardly the phrase for it. The area was vast—miles long, miles high.
And it was empty.
Completely, utterly empty, except for the spots where digs were in progress.
“Welcome to delta,” Coleridge said expansively.
Geordi looked down, his VISOR scanning the makeup of the floor. “Some sort of porous rocky material,” he said.
“In old Earth language, it would be called tarmac,” Coleridge said, “although it does, of course, contain elements that are not found on Earth.”
And then a voice came softly from Geordi’s right, so unexpected that he almost jumped: “I’m glad you’re finally here, Doctor.”
He spun and there was Thul. It was only then that Geordi realized that he had totally forgotten about Coleridge’s Sullurh assistant.
It was clear from Worf’s tone that he had also forgotten, and there was a distinctly annoyed edge in his voice. “Where did you come from?”
Thul pointed over to one side, and the away team saw a transmat booth identical to the ones that studded the streets of Kirlosia. “That is how,” he said politely. “I hope that does not upset you.”
“You . . . There’s a booth set up here?” said Geordi incredulously.
“Of course,” replied Nassa.
“Well, then, why didn’t you have us transported,” demanded Geordi, “instead of making us risk that crazy ride on the speeder sleds?”
“Because,” Coleridge said patiently as if addressing a child, “you crave excitement. Remember? And you must admit that my way was much more exciting.”
Geordi sighed and started to walk slowly toward the digs. Coleridge was saying, “We’re all set up over there,” and Thul was now just behind her and to the right. Worf took the opportunity to hang back and speak in a low voice to Data.
“Thul,” Worf said in distinct irritation, “is annoyingly easy to lose track of.”
“He is very unassuming,” said Data thoughtfully. “Some might consider that a positive character trait.”
“I do not,” Worf replied.
“What would you suggest we do?” asked Data.
Worf pondered that a moment. “Perhaps I should shoot him,” he said, engaging in his own unique brand of Klingon humor.
Data’s eyebrows went up. “That seems a bit extreme.”
“That was not my extreme plan. I suspect you would not want to hear my extreme plan.”
“I suspect you are correct,” said Data. “I would have to ask you not to take any action against Thul, no matter how irritating you might find his non-offensiveness.”
“Is that an order?” was the cold reply.
Data blinked at that. “That would seem the proper word for it. However, I would prefer to think of it as a request—one that I hope you will honor, since the alternative is court-martial.”
Geordi, meantime, was talking animatedly with Nassa. “So what kind of a place was this, anyway?”
“What do you think it is?”
“Teacher quizzing the student?”
“Archaeologist asking for the opinion of a learned individual.”
Geordi thought about it a moment. “Space port. Only thing that makes sense.”
“That’s what we thought. There’s just one problem.”
“That being?”
“No doors.”
Geordi stopped and looked at her. “Nothing?”
“Nothing. No bay doors, no false walls, nothing. We’re inside solid rock with no way in or out. So if there were ships down here, how did they exit and enter?”
“There are ways,” Geordi said slowly. “Local warps, wormholes even.”
“Wormholes?”
“Yeah, wormholes. Basically they’re like tunnels, warps in the fabric of space. Hole at either end, heavy gravity tunnel in between them. Go in one end, come out the other. But natural wormholes aren’t stable, and it would take very sophisticated technology to manipulate such energy. Even we can’t do it yet.”
“ ‘We’ meaning representatives of the pinnacle of civilization.” She smiled, then stopped at the edge of the dig area and slid the equipment off her back. “Here’s where I’m going to start digging. We chose this spot carefully, using detailed scientific means.”
“Like what?”
“I pointed to a spot on a map and said, ‘Right here.’ I’m hoping you’ll use that VISOR of yours to scan the area and pick out a better spot.”
Geordi glanced around. There were a half-dozen other digs already in progress, all manned by members of the K’Vin Hegemony. The diggers afforded the UFP representatives brief annoyed stares before returning to work.
“I’ll be more than happy to do whatever I can, Nassa,” said Geordi slowly, “as will Worf and Data. But I’ll tell you right now, there’s not much we can do about the nasty looks we’re getting from the others.”
“Can you sense looks?”
“I can sense hostility all right,” he said. “I admire your sticking to your guns about the dig here, but it looks like we’re in the middle of a political mess.”
Nassa made a rude noise. “I leave politics to the politi
cians. It’s all background noise to the real work we have to do here. Let drones like Gezor get worked up about it. I have more important things to do.”
Chapter Four
GREGACH HAD NOT EXPECTED this conversation to take more than a few minutes. Now he would have to wait just a little longer for his dusk meal.
The ambassador could almost taste his spilat—not a simulation, but an actual fresh-killed spilat slaughtered in the age-old manner, so that its poisons could not back up into its sweet and succulent flesh . . . sliced and spiced and singed just lightly, leaving thick green juices to flow in savory abundance. . . .
“I am surprised,” he said, tearing himself away from his anticipation long enough to address his assistant, “that you are opposed to this, Gezor. A major excavation can only mean more work for your people.”
The Sullurh hoisted his shoulders up around his ears in a catch-all motion that could signify fascination, confusion, or indifference, depending on the context. In this case, Gregach gathered, the last possibility was the applicable one.
“ ‘Opposed’ is too strong a word, Ambassador. A more appropriate word would be ‘concerned.’ ”
The Sullurh was perhaps a third of Gregach’s weight and a good head and a half shorter than the ambassador, due only in part to his slight stoop. At times Gezor seemed to disappear into the stonework of the embassy. But when he had something to say, the ambassador had learned, it was in his interest to listen.
Gezor was not remarkably bright—after all, he was a Sullurh—but he often displayed an intriguing slant on things. And he made it his business to know what was on people’s minds—something Gregach did not always have time for, with his constant politicking for a more prestigious position in the Hegemony.
“I must say,” commented the ambassador, “I am a little surprised. Coleridge has created a great deal of employment for your people with her little project.”
“My people,” said Gezor, “are not my prime concern, as you know. I am a servant of this embassy first and a Sullurh second.”
Gregach nodded. “Of course. I did not mean to imply otherwise.” Gezor had worked hard to establish a reputation for himself in the embassy. It was not fair to impugn his character by ascribing to him a kinship with the common Sullurh. “But what, exactly, is your objection to her?”
The Sullurh screwed up his face, making his large pinkish eyes appear even larger. “There is something about her that seems . . . inappropriate. She is . . . too extroverted,” he decided at last. “Too given to humor. Archaeologists are not noted for such qualities, no matter what their race.”
True, conceded Gregach. But that sort of deviation was hardly cause for alarm. “What are you saying? That she is a spy of some sort?”
The Sullurh stared at him for a moment. “Perhaps.” A pause. “And then,” Gezor continued, “there is the matter of the Starfleet officers.”
This, Gregach noted with some satisfaction, was something that had made him think twice as well. But Stephaleh had quelled his suspicions with her openness on the subject.
And of course each of the officers had a practical reason for being here. But if this archaeological project was a ruse, would not such reasons have been conveniently provided? And would it not have been Stephaleh’s duty to support the deception despite their relationship? And . . .
He stopped himself. What was he thinking? The Federation had nothing to gain through such elaborate duplicity. No military intelligence, certainly. Nothing at all, in fact, that could improve their position vis-à-vis the K’Vin.
There were no secrets here on Kirlos, he mused, no inclination to be secretive and nothing to be secretive about.
So try as he might, he could not get overly excited about Gezor’s suspicions. Like most things in life, the Federation project was probably just what it seemed to be. Subterfuge was by far the exception, not the rule—a lesson that had stood him in good stead throughout his military career.
“I appreciate your warning,” he told Gezor finally. “I will have the excavation site watched closely. But I will not prohibit either the woman or the Federation officers from taking part.”
If his aide was disappointed with Gregach’s decision, he gave no sign of it. But then, Gezor was very perceptive; he would know that he had nothing to gain from further argument.
The Sullurh again hunched his shoulders up around his head. “As you wish, Ambassador.”
Gezor was the perfect assistant, Gregach reflected. Loyal, insightful . . . and he had an acute sense of when to let a matter drop.
The K’Vin swiveled his chair toward the viewscreen on the north wall and placed a call to Stephaleh. As always, it took time for his communication to be cleared through Federation embassy protocols.
He barely noticed as Gezor exited from the room. His thoughts, as he waited for Stephaleh to appear on the screen, had already returned to the promise of the succulent, recently slaughtered spilat.
Worf scanned the building—its sparkling concave walls, its haphazard placement of whimsically shaped windows. Four stories high, it dominated this part of town, contrasting severely with the featureless gray shell of beta level’s “sky.”
He grunted.
“So this is it,” said Geordi.
“Yes,” said Coleridge. “The new Commercial Trading Hall.” She laughed that deep, throaty laugh of hers—a sound which, Worf decided, was not completely unpleasant. “The emptiest building in town, gentlemen. If there are twenty people in it at any given time, I’ll eat my tricorder on the spot.”
Data looked at the archaeologist, and Geordi caught the look. “That’s only a figure of speech, Data. She doesn’t really intend to eat it.”
The android nodded. “I am familiar with the expression, Geordi. Commander Riker has employed variations of it.” He turned back to Coleridge. “My question, Professor, concerns your estimate of the building’s occupancy level. One would think that with space at such a premium in Kirlosia, no edifice would remain vacant for very long.”
“Indeed,” said Coleridge, “one would think so.” She seemed to measure her words—not unlike a Klingon, Worf noted. “And had this place been built to serve any other purpose, it would probably be packed to the rafters. But commerce is something the Kirlosians prefer to carry on in less public venues.”
Judging from Data’s expression, he hadn’t quite caught her meaning. Worf tried to couch it in blunter terms, even though Klingons did not pride themselves on their merchanting expertise.
“No witnesses, no taxation,” he said.
“That’s right,” agreed the archaeologist, casting Worf a grateful look. After all, she was not used to dealing with an android; she had not known at which level of complexity to pitch her explanation. “These merchants are supposed to pay taxes on their profits, Data, not only to the Federation, through Kirlos, but also to their home-system governments. What’s more, they may be dealing in goods that are deemed tradable commodities by the Federation but are considered contraband elsewhere. So, for a number of reasons, most business transactions are kept out of the public eye.”
“I see,” said the android. “But if the merchants’ requirements are in opposition to the use of such a facility, then why was it built?”
Geordi chuckled. “That, Data, is one of the great mysteries of life. It’s called bureaucracy.”
The Klingons had a name for it, too. “Crakh-makh borguh,” muttered Worf. Literally translated, it meant “an infestation of carrion-eaters.”
Coleridge turned to him and smiled. “Crakh-makh togh-uruk selah,” she intoned.
“May the carrion-eaters choke on our flesh.”
Worf looked at the human female in a new light. She had put an awkward spin on the words, but at least she had made the attempt. For most non-Klingons, the Klingon language was impossible even to listen to, much less speak.
He knew he had liked something about Coleridge. With a curt nod, he acknowledged her effort. “Mughdar kocghlat,” he told h
er.
“And drown in our blood.”
The archaeologist’s smile widened.
“What the devil are you two talking about?” asked Geordi.
Coleridge shrugged her wide shoulders. “Bureaucracies, of course. Isn’t that the subject before us, Mr. La Forge?”
Geordi frowned. Worf knew he hated being left out of things, especially jokes. Then again, he had once likened Klingonese to gargling with metal filings—so Worf had no sympathy for him in this case.
“Great,” said the chief engineer of the Enterprise. “I hope you’re having a good time. Wait till I start telling quantum mechanics jokes to Data. See how you like . . .”
He never finished his gibe. It was drowned out by a ground-shuddering roar and a sudden blossom of flame from the roof of the trading hall tower. The blossom collapsed in on itself almost immediately, giving way to smaller tongues of red fire that lapped at the building’s exterior through every window on the top two floors.
“My God,” said Coleridge.
But it wasn’t over. It had only begun.
A moment later a second explosion tore the entire crown off the building, sending streams of deadly fire onto the rooftops of the smaller structures around it.
Suddenly the streets were full of people, screaming, running, knocking others down in their haste.
For Worf, the sight was like a blow between the eyes, for it brought back memories he had been trying all his life to put aside—memories of the conflagration on Khitomer, starting with the Romulan fire from the sky and ending with a single Klingon youth scrabbling for life in the choking, crushing rubble.
And here he was, just as helpless as before. Just as confused, with no enemy in sight. No one to fight back at.
Suddenly someone gripped his arm. He whirled, his phaser in his hand before he knew he had even drawn it.
But it was no enemy who had confronted him. It was Geordi.
“Worf,” he cried over the din, “we’ve got to help evacuate these buildings, get these people out of the area!”
Gradually the Klingon steadied himself, took a deep breath, exhaled it through clenched teeth. The smell of smoke was thick in the air.
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