DOOMSDAY WORLD

by CARMEN CARTER, PETER DAVID, MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

  “Worf, are you all right?”

  Calmer now, he was able to see that the chaos in the streets was the worst of it. If that could be controlled, fatalities could be kept to a minimum.

  Data and Coleridge were already on their way to the ravaged trading hall, making headway as best they could against the tide of those who were fleeing the vicinity. If there were survivors trapped in the ruins of the tower, Data was best equipped to free them.

  “Worf?”

  With a glance, he assured Geordi that he was all right—indeed, denied that he had ever been anything else.

  “Orders, sir?”

  “What? Me order you—in this mess? You’re the security officer—start securing!”

  It was all the Klingon had to hear. Wading through the ragged mob, he fired his phaser in the air. It had the desired effect.

  “That way,” he bellowed, pointing to the west where none of the buildings had been affected. One by one, the Kirlosians started to get the message.

  From the vantage of her office window, Stephaleh looked out on the flames and black smoke that crowned the ruined trading hall. The smoke was gradually starting to spread over the rest of the Federation sector.

  “Then everything is under control now?” she asked.

  From behind her came Zamorh’s somewhat breathless response. “Yes, Ambassador. The area has been evacuated and the nearby buildings have been foamed—apparently in time to prevent any real damage. The trading hall, however, cannot be saved.”

  “And those removed from the hall?”

  “Two of the three should live,” stated the Sullurh. “One, I am told, will not—a Maratekkan named Rammis.”

  Stephaleh acknowledged the information with a soft hiss between her teeth. “Had it not been for that android left here by the Enterprise, all three would likely still be in that inferno.” She paused as one of those painful lower-leg cramps came and went. How she hated such small reminders of her mortality. “What about the cause of the explosions? Any word on that yet?”

  “None,” said Zamorh. “Although it is obvious that this was done on purpose. An accident is out of the question. There were no systems in the building capable of blowing up.”

  The ambassador’s antennae twitched impatiently, but she otherwise kept her annoyance to herself. After all, no one had worked harder than Zamorh to mobilize the embassy rescue teams and have them sent to the site. Without him she would have had to do it all herself, and though that would normally have been her preference, she was no longer physically capable of enduring prolonged stress. Damn this growing-old business. . . .

  “Ambassador?”

  “I am aware that this was not an accident,” she said. “I meant to ask if any instruments of destruction had been found or any evidence of who planted them. That sort of thing.”

  “Your pardon, Ambassador. I should have understood.” The Sullurh’s feet scraped on the smooth floor. “But to answer your question—no. There have been no significant discoveries—at least, not yet.” More scraping, a sound that would have been indiscernible to most species of sentient beings, but not to an Andorian. “On the other hand, one may draw conclusions.”

  She turned to look at him, putting the flames and smoke behind her. “Conclusions?” she prodded.

  Zamorh was not a tall individual, even for a Sullurh. And the spaciousness of her office made him appear even smaller, even more fragile. In prehistoric times, the Andorians’ main food staple had been a creature about his size—though of course, Stephaleh’s people had come a long way from their predatory beginnings.

  “Yes, Ambassador. However, you may not be pleased when you hear them.”

  That piqued her interest. “Not pleased? By the deities, why not?”

  “Because I believe,” said the Sullurh, “that the K’Vin are responsible for this.”

  Stephaleh skewered him on her gaze. That possibility had not really occurred to her. “Your reasoning?”

  “It is simple, Ambassador. They are resentful.”

  She smiled a thin-lipped smile. “Of what, Zamorh? Of an empty building, a waste of well-meant Federation funds? The trading hall was the worst idea I’ve had to tolerate in thirty-five years of diplomatic service. How could the K’Vin be resentful of that?”

  The Sullurh seemed undaunted. But then, he seldom shied away from a confrontation with his superior. “They do not see it as a failure, Ambassador; they see it as yet another reminder of our intention to stay on Kirlos indefinitely. Of our insistent claim to a world that they covet—and have coveted since the day they achieved interstellar flight.”

  Stephaleh folded her arms across her narrow chest and peered at Zamorh from beneath her fringe of white hair. “You are talking about the distant past,” she said. “It has been some time since the Federation and the K’Vin Hegemony have actually exchanged hostilities. And nowhere is that more true than on Kirlos. For the deities’ sake, Zamorh, would Ambassador Gregach engage me in games of skill if he really considered me his enemy?”

  Again Zamorh brought his shoulders up around his triangular ears. “Why not? Is it not wise to test an opponent’s proclivities before initiating a bigger game?”

  The ambassador began to pace. “Why have you not mentioned this before?”

  The Sullurh met her gaze, his large pinkish eyes seeming not to blink. “We have never seen a building destroyed before.” And then, since that explanation seemed insufficient, “I know how you enjoy your contests with Ambassador Gregach. I did not wish to sow dissent for no reason.” He glanced at the window. “Though now I wish I had said something before this disaster took place.”

  She frowned. “Why would Gregach have agreed to the archaeological project? Why offer cooperation with one hand and enmity with the other?”

  The Sullurh stared at her for a moment as he pondered the question. “Perhaps,” he decided, “to put us off balance. And remember, Ambassador, the excavation has not begun yet. All the K’Vin have given us is their word.”

  Stephaleh continued to pace, mulling over her assistant’s theory. Of course, she told herself, the K’Vin were only one possibility. There were any number of other groups and individuals in Kirlosia who might have seen fit to destroy the trading hall, and for any number of reasons. Non-Federation merchants, for the control that the building represented. Kirlosian establishments that currently hosted trader meetings and stood to lose if those meetings gravitated someday to the trading hall. Even vandals, just for the hell of it.

  But the K’Vin . . . the more she thought about the idea, the more difficult it was to dismiss it. And it brought her pain, like the stiffness in her back that seemed to victimize her every morning now. For if Gregach had been deceiving her, had been playing her for a fool . . .

  No.

  She could not allow herself to get carried away like this. It was too early to start tossing blame around indiscriminately.

  Besides, in her long career as a diplomat she had come to trust completely in her ability to judge character. Never once had she been wrong. And her instincts told her that Gregach was what he seemed—no more, no less. Certainly he was capable of deception—but he was incapable of deceiving her.

  She stopped pacing, turned to Zamorh. All this time he had remained in one place, awaiting her decision. He would not be pleased with it.

  “As much as I value your opinion,” Stephaleh told him, “I must disagree with you in this instance. At any rate, I cannot take action until our investigation is complete.” She looked at him. “I would like you to oversee it personally from this point on.”

  The Sullurh bent his head slightly. “Of course, Ambassador.”

  There was a certain stiffness in him; Zamorh did not like to be disagreed with. He took it personally.

  But then, that was one of the qualities she valued in him. He was not afraid to stand up for what he believed in. And more than anything else, he believed in the Federation’s right to be on Kirlos.

  “Thank you,” said
Stephaleh. “You may go.”

  The Sullurh left.

  Chapter Five

  Captain’s Personal Log: Starfleet’s description of the attack on Tehuán had not prepared us for the devastation we found upon arrival at the outpost. But then, words are never equal to the reality.

  A THICK LAYER of black dust had settled over the surface of the Tehuán valley. It blanketed the broken rubble of the settlement buildings, covering the raw scars of newly shattered stone; it buried scorched grass and colored the uprooted trees an ash gray. The slightest breeze sent the fine powder swirling back into the air, obscuring the light of the sun, turning day into twilight.

  “Dammit, it’s everywhere,” said Beverly Crusher.

  She could already feel pinpricks of grit edging beneath her uniform collar and trickling down her back, but she dismissed the discomfort just as she dismissed the acrid stench of smoke and the oppressive heat. With a practiced eye the doctor scanned the colonists grouped around her, automatically cataloging the severity of their injuries. Then her attention focused on a still figure huddled on a blanket. A quick inspection revealed dust under a bloodstained bandage, dust that had worked its way into the oozing wound on the woman’s leg.

  “We gave up changing bandages,” said a man who knelt by the doctor’s side. “It only made things worse.” Like all the colonists, he was covered with the black powder, but a thin trickle of sweat running down his cheek revealed pale skin and the white stubble of a beard beneath the grime.

  The makeshift hospital had no ceiling, only a few high walls that cast a protective shadow over the injured. Despite the shade, however, this woman’s skin was hot and dry to the touch. A quick pass of Crusher’s med scanner confirmed the severity of the infection in her blood system.

  “Dr. Stoller, this one should have gone up sooner.” Crusher reached for her communicator. “Enterprise, beam this patient directly to sickbay.”

  The man watched in bewilderment as a glittering cloud enveloped the woman, carrying her away. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t think she was that badly injured.” He lurched to his feet, but swayed in the effort. “I’m the wrong kind of doctor for this work. Better with plants than people . . .”

  Crusher jumped to her feet and reached out an arm to steady him. She resisted the impulse to send Stoller up next; his injuries were minor and sickbay was already flooded with colonists, some near death. Despite his protests, she led the botanist over to a low-lying wall where he could sit.

  “Wait here. You’ll be treated soon.”

  Looking across the ruins, Crusher checked the progress of the personnel from her department. Paramedics advanced behind her like a blue wave washing over a dusty plain. They moved quickly, following the path of triage tags that she had laid down.

  One person detached herself from the main group and approached the chief medical officer. As Edwards drew closer, Crusher noted the puzzled look on the woman’s face.

  “Dr. Crusher, I’ve found something very odd.”

  Before the doctor could hear an explanation, her communicator trilled, closely followed by Riker’s voice: “Recovery teams have located another survivor under a collapsed building. Serious internal injuries. You’ll be needed in surgery.”

  “Acknowledged.” Crusher had already arranged for transport back to the ship before she remembered the paramedic who was still waiting patiently to one side; Crusher also remembered what responsibilities had been assigned to this particular paramedic. Her curiosity about the woman’s errand faded, overshadowed by the more immediate demands of the upcoming surgery.

  “Whatever you found will have to wait until later, Edwards.”

  Then Crusher felt the grip of the transport beam. The ruins of Tehuán dissolved away.

  Riker stumbled over a fallen beam and cursed at the swiftly setting sun. He had headed back for the main camp when there was still enough light to pick his way through the rubble, but shadows were growing longer and darker.

  “Will?” Deanna Troi’s voice came out of the darkness ahead.

  He moved toward the sound, carefully skirting a wall of crumbling stone. The counselor was waiting on the other side. Farther on, a half-dozen people were gathered around the glow of a field lantern. Riker was too far away to feel its warmth, but the light was reassuring.

  “Are these the ones?” he asked. Over fifty colonists had insisted on staying on the surface to help with the rescue efforts, but few of those volunteers had the information he needed.

  “Yes, they were all witnesses.”

  He stepped forward, but Troi grasped his arm and held him back.

  “Colonists, by the very nature of their undertaking, are strong and very resilient. But this unexplained attack has shaken them deeply, even those who escaped uninjured. Try not to pressure them for details.”

  The first officer shook his head. “Deanna, it’s the details that I need. We still don’t know who raided the colony.”

  His answer brought a frown to Troi’s face, but she released her hold and walked with him to the clear space amid the rubble. The circle of people widened to allow Riker to sit down. He studied the drawn faces one by one as the counselor introduced the colonists to him.

  “I need an explanation of what happened here,” said the first officer.

  A young man named Shaun shuddered and glanced nervously up at the sky. The others drew closer to the lantern’s glow. Gathering up a fistful of the black dust from the ground, the farmer let the dirt sift through his fingers. He began to talk in a hoarse and halting voice.

  “This was some of the finest loam on the planet. Now it’s baked into dry dust, along with the crops. We grow . . . we grew an exotic fungus, what you would probably call a mushroom. Good for eating, but with some additional medicinal—”

  “Shaun,” interrupted Riker softly. Despite Troi’s warning, he trusted their courage. Any one of them could have been safe aboard the Enterprise by now, but they had chosen to stay instead. “About the attack?”

  Shaun didn’t answer, but the woman sitting by his side responded. Clark took a deep breath, as if to brace herself for the memories.

  “They came at night, when I was out in the fields gathering specimens for study. At first I thought I was seeing a cluster of meteors, but they grew brighter and moved like a storm of comets flaming through the air. Then they changed direction and I knew they were nothing natural. But I still wasn’t afraid.”

  “How many ships were there?” prompted Riker.

  “I counted at least eight,” said a botanist named Delia. “Possibly ten.” The others nodded their agreement.

  “What did the ships look like?” But no one answered.

  “I couldn’t see them,” said Delia finally, with a weary shrug. “All I could see was the bright flash when they fired their weapons. And they shot at anything . . . at everything. Houses, maintenance stations, fields, roads.” She pointed to the high, jagged peak of a mountain overlooking the valley. “They even fired at Cahuapetl, triggering a rock slide that damaged the eastern part of the settlement. I heard the hiss of rising steam when they fired on the Río Pequeño.”

  Riker frowned when the narrative stopped. “But where did they center their fire?”

  “That’s just it!” cried a biochemist named Delaplace. “There was no focus. It was like . . . like target practice. Without meaning, without sense. They destroyed the valley and then left.” Her hands began to tremble.

  “We didn’t have a chance,” said the last of the colonists to speak. Blanc’s mouth twisted into a bitter grimace. “No defense system, no weapons. Next time we could be wiped out entirely. Next time—”

  “Hopefully, there won’t be a next time,” said Riker, cutting into the flow of words. He didn’t need Troi’s empathic powers to recognize their escalating fear. “The Enterprise will stay here to protect this settlement until the danger is gone. You have my word on it.”

  The expression of relief on Troi’s face confirmed that his words had curbed t
heir panic, but young Shaun still jerked his head up to check the night sky. It was an automatic action by now. His fear was too deeply rooted to be allayed easily.

  Riker’s resolve to protect the Tehuán colonists hardened into a personal vow.

  Wesley Crusher heard the word “come,” took a deep breath, then stepped through the opening doors of the ready room. This wasn’t the first time he had paid a visit to the captain’s private realm uninvited, but the decision to face Picard in his lair still required courage. And a certain amount of desperation.

  Once inside the room, the young ensign found himself facing still more obstacles. Picard was staring out the star window, his back to the door. He did not appear to have noticed Wesley’s entrance.

  “Captain?” Wesley winced at the unexpected break in his voice.

  After a long silence, Picard swiveled his chair around. He fixed Wesley with a stern gaze. “The Borg would have stripped the settlement of its technology, not simply destroyed it.”

  “Sir?”

  “And the Ferengi wouldn’t have wasted their energy reserves by firing on fields and rivers. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Wesley, nodding. “That would seem—”

  “Ten ships, all using standard phaser weaponry.” This statement brought a frown to the captain’s face. “At least that’s the report from the away team’s preliminary damage survey.”

  “About the away team, sir?” Wesley saw a chance to voice his own concerns and was anxious to take advantage of it before Picard continued. “Request permission to volunteer for—”

  “Permission denied, Ensign.”

  “But—”

  Picard’s frown deepened. “Ensign Crusher, you were not chosen for a landing party assignment. Your unscheduled arrival would only distract Commander Riker from his duties. If he requires more help and requests additional personnel, you can volunteer for planet duty.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Wesley, fighting to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He took a small step backwards, wondering how he could best retreat from the captain’s presence.