DOOMSDAY WORLD

by CARMEN CARTER, PETER DAVID, MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

  “I suppose it’s only natural for you to be drawn to the activity on the planet.” Picard’s frown faded away, but unfortunately his interest in the ensign did not go with it. “It takes a certain maturity of perspective to see that there is as much challenge on the bridge as on the away team.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I can see you’re not convinced.” With a wave of his hand, Picard motioned the ensign to take a seat by the desk. “Tell me, what are Tehuán’s principal commercial activities?”

  “They’ve only got one,” said Wesley as he sat down across from the captain. By this time, he sincerely regretted the impulse that had brought him here. “Agriculture.”

  “And what is their annual income from exports of their produce?”

  He had only skimmed the planet brief on Tehuán, but Wesley was relieved that he remembered the second answer as well. “They’re operating at a loss. This is a newly established colony that hasn’t reached operational levels yet.”

  Picard nodded. “So the settlement’s commercial properties are of little value, and the colonists have accumulated no wealth.” He paused as if waiting for Wesley to make a comment, then fired out another question. “What about the planet’s strategic importance?”

  “It hasn’t got any. It’s not even near the major trading routes.” Wesley sat up in the chair and cried out, “But, sir. This doesn’t make any sense!”

  “Exactly my point,” said Picard. “Why attack Tehuán?”

  The captain swiveled back to the star window with its view of the planet. “It’s my job to find that answer.”

  Lost in thought, he didn’t notice Wesley’s quiet departure.

  The second day on Tehuán was the worst for Riker.

  Starting at dawn, he directed the search teams in the gruesome task of searching for the dead. Even with the use of antigrav lifts and earth-movers, he was soon covered with dirt and his muscles were aching from the strain of scrambling over the rough terrain. And this time there were no rewards for all their effort. No voices cried out for release from beneath the debris.

  The breezes that had cooled the valley died out by afternoon. Sweating heavily in the still air, the first officer watched as yet another body was pulled out from under the rubble of a collapsed building. The attending paramedic ran a scanner over the remains, then shook his head. Despite the technician’s attention to detail, he knew the examination was merely a formality, since sensors had already probed the ruins for signs of survivors the day before.

  “That reminds me,” said Ravitch as he began to cover the body. “Lieutenant Edwards was looking for you earlier.”

  Riker acknowledged the comment with a grunt of resignation, then worked his way through the ruins to an area he usually tried to avoid. A dozen neatly wrapped bundles were stacked side by side along a crumbling wall. Only their size gave a clue as to what lay inside.

  Edwards was in charge of the morgue.

  “Are you squeamish?” she asked, looking up at the first officer.

  “Not particularly,” he said.

  “Good. Then come look at this.”

  Edwards was kneeling on the ground beside the corpse of a colonist, but her body was shielding the upper torso from his view. With an involuntary grimace, Riker stepped closer and to one side and looked down. The sight brought an uprush of bile to the back of his throat. After he had absorbed the shock of seeing the disfigured face, he tried to catch up to what Edwards was saying about the body.

  “. . . was recovered near a rock slide. An autopsy will determine the specific cause of death.”

  “That’s fairly obvious, isn’t it?” After a moment’s hesitation, Riker crouched down beside Edwards for a closer examination of the blackened marks on the head and neck. “Those are phaser burns. He must have been caught in a pass from an attacking ship.”

  “But they’re not phaser burns,” said the medic. “The appearance is similar, but there’s a mottled skin pattern beneath the carbonization that I’m not familiar with. And this is the third corpse I’ve found with those marks.”

  To Riker’s relief, she pulled a blanket up over the charred head. Rocking back on his heels, the first officer puzzled over this information. “This could mean the attackers used a new weapon.”

  “Forensics isn’t my specialty. I can’t explain the marks.”

  “Then beam this body up to the ship for immediate examination.”

  “Commander Riker,” said Edwards. “Speaking from personal experience, I would guess that autopsies aren’t exactly a priority with Dr. Crusher right now.”

  Riker smiled grimly. “They are if the captain requests them.”

  Chapter Six

  GEORDI LOOKED OUT the window of the quarters that the United Federation of Planets had provided for them as he pulled on his right boot, and he smiled. He called behind him, “Ready to sample the nightlife of Kirlosia, Data?”

  Data, sitting patiently in a chair nearby, tilted his head slightly. “It would be odd if nocturnal activity differed appreciably from that of the daytime,” he said thoughtfully, “especially since day-night differentiation on Kirlos is an arbitrary matter.”

  Geordi sighed. He knew that huge lights lined the upper reaches of Kirlosia, and their dimming at a set time was the sole reason for nightfall in the outpost city. Nevertheless, having Data remind him of the fact took the enjoyment out of it. Telling the android that, though, would doubtless be a waste of time. “Right, Data,” he said. “But tell you what . . . let’s try to enjoy it anyway. Okay?”

  Endeavoring to match Geordi’s waning enthusiasm, Data simply said, “Okay.”

  Moments later they met Worf and Coleridge down in the lobby. Data could not help but observe that Thul was not present. It was just as well. Klingons were noted for being irrational about some things, and certainly Worf’s immediate dislike for the harmless Sullurh assistant was one of those things.

  Geordi, for his part, was startled by Coleridge’s appearance. Earlier she had been wearing a simple jumpsuit. Now she was clothed in a caped purple ensemble that swept low to the floor but was slit provocatively high up one thigh. She did a turn in place. “You like?”

  Geordi felt distinctly uncomfortable seeing his former mentor dressed this way. Still, he couldn’t help smiling. “I like fine,” he said.

  They exited the building and turned to the right. Coleridge was busy trying to uphold her self-proclaimed responsibility as guide.

  “This is Embassy Run,” she was saying. “It leads directly from the UFP embassy, there”—she pointed behind them—“to the K’Vin embassy.” She pointed ahead of them into the growing darkness. The K’Vin embassy was too far off for them to see—even for Geordi’s VISOR—but he nodded cordially as if it were in plain sight. “Embassy Run,” she continued, “is one of only two straight, normal streets in the whole damned city. The other is the Strip, which we buzzed down earlier; it slices diagonally across from the southwest to the northeast corner of the city. It crosses Embassy Run, and that intersection is pretty much the hottest spot in the city.”

  “That’s the place for us, then, right, guys?” said Geordi brightly.

  Data nodded politely and Worf grunted, which was about as much enthusiasm as he could be expected to show.

  “Stick with me,” said Coleridge, “and remember, no wandering off into the back streets. You could get seriously lost. And don’t count on a transmat booth to save your hide. In the back streets they can be few and far between.”

  “You getting all this, Data?” Geordi asked.

  Data blinked in surprise. “Of course. Would you like it repeated verbatim or simply condensed?”

  “Just save it for later.”

  “All right.”

  They stopped at the intersection of Embassy Run and the Strip and took it all in.

  To Geordi it appeared to be a massive, dazzling display of lights. The street was crammed with sign after flashing sign, some with burned-out lettering, others in full glory
lighting up the night.

  Data, for his part, studied the many varieties of beings who crammed the streets. Randrisians, Andorians, Tellarites . . .

  A soft hand touched his arm. He turned and saw an exotically dressed female of the Thialtan race.

  In a low voice she said, “Looking for some fun?”

  “I believe that is the general concept,” said Data affably.

  “I can show you some,” she said. “Once you’ve had a Thialtan, there’s no going back.”

  Before Data could respond, Worf was standing in between him and the Thialtan. Worf looked down at her and rumbled, “He’s with me.”

  The Thialtan regarded him coolly. “Kinky,” she said.

  Data frowned.

  “Don’t ask,” Worf warned him and turned back to the Thialtan. “It’s for his own protection. Thialtan sexual prowess is well documented. He is an android. There is a good chance you would blow his circuitry.”

  She smiled. “For starters,” she said. Then she shrugged, turned on her heel, and walked away with a provocative switch of her hips.

  Data watched her go, certain that there had been some sort of subtext to the conversation that he had missed completely. “She said there would be no going back. Where was I going to?”

  “You are going to stay near me,” said Worf sternly. “As security chief, it will not reflect well on me if the ranking officer is found disassembled in the morning.”

  It was an odd situation for Data. Generally he was with Riker or the captain in away-team situations. But being in command? What a curious concept.

  “Hey!” Geordi was shouting from a distance. “Come on, you two!”

  Geordi was standing just outside the largest establishment in the area. There was a huge flashing sign that read “Busiek’s,” and from inside the place came loud music, rough laughter, and occasional cheering. An odd odor also seemed to float from Busiek’s; after a moment, Data recognized it as the smell of alcohol. This was verified when various sentients staggered out of the place in a diminished capacity.

  “This would seem to be the equivalent of the Ten-Forward lounge,” Data said as they walked quickly after the chief engineer. Geordi and Coleridge had already vanished into the recesses of the tavern.

  “Somewhat rougher, I would think,” said Worf. “Watch your step.”

  Data looked down and trod very carefully as they entered the bar.

  The android was promptly assaulted by a barrage of sights, sounds, and aromas, a dazzling texture of sensations that he had never encountered before. He looked around, his yellow eyes wide.

  A dim haze seemed to hang in the air, and all varieties of Kirlosians were crammed together in the confines of the tavern. Some sat huddled in conversation at small tables in the back. Others crowded around the bar, where there hardly seemed to be any room. Geordi and Coleridge had managed to find some space, though, and were already working on their first drinks.

  Unlike the gleaming metallic sheen of the Enterprise rooms, the tavern was made of older synthetics with a rough-hewn look to them. The lighting, thanks to the haze, was somewhat dim, but Data’s eyes immediately adjusted. As he walked, he looked down and saw that something on the order of sawdust covered the floor.

  “Should we sit somewhere?” the android asked.

  Worf surveyed the crowd, nodded briskly, and started to pull Data through. He got to an empty table at exactly the same time as two Inanh merchants. They glowered at each other, but to Data’s relief, the Inanh backed down and Worf and Data slid behind the table.

  A female Zoloch shuffled over and took their drink order. The Zoloch, because of their three-armed maneuverability and three-legged stability, were widely considered to be, among other things, the best waiters in the galaxy.

  “I have heard of great hostility between Federation and K’Vin allies,” said Data, looking around. “But I perceive a massive blending of all concerned here. Perhaps these racial divisions are exaggerated.”

  “I think not,” Worf said. “Look again. They all stay with their own kind. Even at the crowded bar, notice that none of the Hegemony come into physical contact, even casually, with a Federation member.”

  Data saw immediately that Worf was quite correct. He also saw that Geordi and Coleridge were into their second drinks and looking very friendly.

  “I never knew you were like this,” Geordi was saying.

  “Like what?” Coleridge smiled.

  “Like this . . . warm and approachable. I mean, I had such tremendous respect for you at the university and—”

  “And now you have no respect for me?” But she was smiling, her almond eyes sparkling with amusement.

  Flustered, Geordi said quickly, “That’s not what I meant. I—”

  She patted his hand. “I know what you meant, Geordi. You’re not in awe of me, and that’s as it should be. Differences in years are much larger when teenagers and adults are involved. But we’re both adults now.”

  He grinned lopsidedly. “We sure are. You know . . . you do look really good tonight.”

  She ran her fingers through her hair coquettishly. “Yes, I know,” and they both laughed.

  Behind the bar, a large horned creature covered with thick matted hair was mixing drinks as quickly as he could. Nassa pointed him out to Geordi and said, “See him? That’s Busiek. He owns the bar and knows everything about everything. Any questions, ask him.”

  “Everything about everything?” Geordi was feeling exceptionally mellow and he called out, “Hey, Busiek!”

  The bartender turned and looked at him inquiringly.

  “What’s the diameter of this planet?”

  “Forty-two hundred miles,” Busiek said briskly.

  “Average surface temperature?”

  “Minus sixty-two Celsius.”

  Geordi paused. “What’s the average wing speed of an unladen swallow?”

  “European or African?” asked Busiek.

  Geordi looked back at Nassa. “Damn, he’s good.”

  Data, still trying to take everything in, noticed Gregach’s second-in-command over in a corner. Gezor.

  The curious thing was, Gezor looked intensely interested in not being noticed. He was wearing a cloak, the hood of which was pulled up, and even Data had not recognized him until the hood fell away briefly while Gezor was drinking. Gezor very quickly pulled it up again and seemed to cast a quick glance around, as if to make sure he had not been noticed.

  There were two other Sullurh at the table with him, neither of whom Data knew. They were huddled close together, discussing something in what appeared to be urgent tones.

  “Excuse me.”

  It was a deep, full female voice, and Data turned, wondering if that curious Thialtan woman had returned to resume their conversation.

  She was not a Thialtan, and she was definitely not interested in Data.

  A green Orion woman, wearing a tiger-cat smile and very little else, had sidled into the seat next to Worf. Worf was regarding her appraisingly.

  What was running through his mind was clear. If Thialtan sexual prowess was well documented, that of Orion women was legendary, bordering on mythic. And they were nearly as durable as their Klingon counterparts.

  Worf never took his eyes off her, partly out of fascination, partly out of self-preservation. He was treading on dangerous ground letting her get this close to him. Then again, what good was the life of a warrior if it did not include danger every now and then?

  “I haven’t seen many Klingons here,” she said, every word seeming to drip with sexual tension.

  “Kirlosia is for scientists, merchants, and tourists,” Worf replied slowly.

  “And what are you doing here?” she asked. Her face was very close to Worf’s, and Data wondered if that was really very hygienic.

  “Talking to you,” Worf rumbled.

  “Is that all you do? Talk?” She ran her tongue along her upper teeth. “Or are you a man of action?”

  “It depends on the p
rovocation.”

  “I can be very provocative.”

  “No doubt,” said Worf.

  She sucked air noisily between her lips, and her eyes were smoldering. “Let’s leave.”

  The Klingon regarded her. She was tempting. Quite tempting . . .

  Just then, a dagger the length of Worf’s forearm embedded itself in the tabletop.

  Worf looked up. And up.

  A massive Orion pirate was standing there glowering at the two of them. “Drusanne,” he said dangerously, “what have I told you about running off?”

  “I go where I wish,” she said, and gripped Worf’s arm. “I’m not your slave. And where I wish to go is with . . . what’s your name?”

  “His name is mud,” said the pirate.

  “No, his name is Worf,” said Data helpfully.

  Without looking at Data, Worf said, “I can handle this, Lieutenant Commander.”

  “Handle what? Is there going to be a problem?”

  “Only if the Klingon doesn’t let go of my woman,” said the pirate.

  Data glanced over and said, “Actually, I believe that she is holding on to him, not—”

  “Commander,” said Worf.

  “I am my own woman,” said Drusanne. “And you can’t order me around, Grax. I’m leaving with him.”

  “You’re not leaving with anyone,” said Grax, “unless it’s me. Must I make examples of these two in order to prove that?”

  By way of punctuation, he poked Data in the chest.

  “I would not do that, if I were you,” said Worf.

  “Why not?” laughed Grax.

  “Because it gives me an excuse to wipe the walls with you. Or perhaps I should just shoot you. That would simplify matters.”

  “That will not be necessary, Lieutenant,” said the android.

  “Not now, Data—”

  But Data pressed on. “It would seem to me that you are about to engage in a test of brute strength.”

  “It won’t be a test,” said Grax. “It will be a slaughter.”