DOOMSDAY WORLD

by CARMEN CARTER, PETER DAVID, MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

  She nodded and with a low hand gesture asked for them to be brought in. With Gregach distracted, she lowered the audio pickup—usually set high to indulge Gregach, who always good-naturedly complained about Stephaleh’s whisper. The door swung open and Data walked into the room, followed by Worf and Geordi. This was the first time Data had walked in the lead, and she watched with interest. They looked tired and dirty—the result, no doubt, of the explosion. At least they were alive.

  “Ambassador, we have just come from the K’Vin territory. There was an explosion at the embassy,” Data began.

  She shushed him and pointed to the monitor. Gregach remained in consultation with Gezor, who was now gesturing with both hands. He seemed agitated to Stephaleh.

  “Ambassador Gregach,” she said.

  The thickset K’Vin looked up and noticed that the link was still open. And to his surprise, Data was visible on his screen behind Stephaleh.

  “The Enterprise officers have just arrived,” said the Andorian. “Once we have debriefed them, I am sure they will be most happy to tell your people exactly what they saw. Should they contact Ilugh?” Ilugh was the head of Gregach’s personal guard, a soldier who had served under him in more than one military campaign.

  “No need, Ambassador. I have already spoken to them personally,” he replied. “And released them.” He paused, composing his thoughts and looking again at Gezor, who had not moved out of screen range, as he usually did. Stephaleh suppressed a surprised reaction; it hadn’t occurred to her that Gregach would question them before contacting her. Something seemed different about Gregach, as if he had wakened from a long nap.

  “These circumstances have been tragic, what with destruction and death,” Gregach said. “I do not see any other course, at present, but to suspend the archaeological dig and order—no, make that request—that all United Federation of Planets personnel remain on their side of Kirlosia.”

  “You’re cutting us off, just like that? Would you like us to stop breathing the air pumped from your circulators?” Stephaleh’s anger showed in her sarcasm, and Geordi watched, amazed. He knew then that she was not someone he wanted to cross.

  “I do not see another choice. Until I know who or what caused the explosion, I must restrict the number of people with access to official K’Vin buildings.”

  “And what of the destruction of a Federation building? That came first and we cast no suspicions on you and your people. Why accuse us so readily? Have you some proof—or just fear?”

  Gregach was taken aback by her words and her anger. He seemed genuinely ashamed of the situation, but also gave no sign of backing down. He couldn’t. A battle was brewing and he wanted to remain sharp. “I am sorry you feel that way, Ambassador, but I must do as I see fit. We will speak again when I have news.” And the screen went dark.

  Stephaleh leaned back in her chair. She considered the three Enterprise officers across the expanse of her imported Andorian desk.

  “And so,” she said, “you believe that Gregach’s assistant knew about the incident in advance?”

  Data nodded. “Precisely, Ambassador. Even if I had not overheard his conversation, his choice of routes would have suggested a certain foreknowledge.”

  “And if he knew about it,” said La Forge, “it’s not so improbable that he helped cause it.”

  “Or,” said Worf, “that he and his accomplices had a hand in the trading hall incident.”

  The ambassador kneaded one hand with the other. It helped relieve the stiffness. “You’re suggesting treachery,” she said, “that extends into the ranks of the K’Vin embassy.” She turned to Zamorh, who sat to one side of her. “Can you shed any light on this?” she asked him.

  The Sullurh stared at her as he gathered his thoughts. “Precious little,” he said finally. “I do not know this Gezor very well, nor do I know his family. Therefore, I cannot vouch for his intentions. However, I do know this: he has served Ambassador Gregach for some years now, and Gregach’s predecessor for some years before that. Moreover, I cannot think why he would want to turn traitor. Where is the profit for him—the advantage?”

  “A good question,” said Stephaleh. She turned back to the officers. “Care to take a stab at it?”

  The android suddenly looked perplexed.

  “The ambassador means,” explained La Forge, “that she wants us to provide an answer—if we can.”

  “Ah,” said Data. “Of course.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Worf, “we can provide no answer.” He scowled—a typical Klingon, noted Stephaleh—and glanced at Zamorh. “Not without better knowledge of what motivates the Sullurh.”

  The ambassador could almost see Zamorh’s hackles rise. Yet he remained still and expressionless in his chair.

  An Andorian would never have received the implication so calmly. But then, Zamorh was no Andorian.

  She addressed all three officers, but the Klingon in particular. “Let me assure you,” she said, “that the Sullurh are a simple, straightforward people. They are not easily swayed from their loyalties. That is why we—both the Federation and the K’Vin—have drawn upon them in staffing our embassies. Believe me, they would not be tempted by either financial gain or the promise of power, even if such things were offered to them.” She sighed, sat back in her chair. “Now, it may be that this Gezor has violated the trust that Gregach placed in him. But if he has, it is a very un-Sullurh-like trait that has caused him to do so.”

  “All right,” said La Forge. “Maybe trying to figure out Gezor is the wrong approach. Maybe we try to figure out his allies.”

  Stephaleh kneaded her hands some more. “Allies,” she echoed.

  “He would have to have had allies,” said Worf. “It is highly unlikely that, with a profile as high as his, he could have procured the explosives on his own.”

  The ambassador nodded. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “Is there any group,” asked Data, “that has expressed disaffection for the K’Vin? Or for the embassy in particular?”

  Stephaleh shrugged. “Not openly.” She turned to Zamorh. “To your knowledge?”

  He shook his head. “As you say, not openly. However, there is a contingent of Xanthricite traders who have had numerous disagreements with the K’Vin embassy of late—if only in matters of commerce.”

  “What about the Randrisians?” asked Worf. “Are they not present on the K’Vin side? And have they not had a history of confrontations with the K’Vin?”

  “Good point,” said Stephaleh. “Though the confrontations you speak of are generally considered ancient history, both by the K’Vin and by the Randrisians.”

  The Klingon grunted. “Never underestimate the power of ancient history,” he maintained.

  “No,” said La Forge. “It’s got to be bigger than that. Don’t forget—the trading hall was destroyed, too. What would the Randrisians and the Xanthricites have against the trading hall? Or against the Federation?”

  The ambassador looked at him. “A conspiracy that transcends the K’Vin-Federation division?”

  “That’s right,” said La Forge. “A group with reasons to undermine both embassies.”

  “That,” observed Stephaleh, “would be big.”

  “Unless,” Worf interjected, “the destruction of the Commercial Trading Hall was just a ploy, so that when the K’Vin embassy was victimized, suspicion would naturally come down on the Federation.”

  “Intriguing,” said Data. “The Federation would be suspected of seeking revenge, though in actuality it would be a victim. Just as the K’Vin are victims.”

  “Yes,” said Stephaleh. “Intriguing indeed. But we have no proof of any of this. No evidence that a conspiracy even exists.”

  “But neither can we rule it out,” insisted Worf.

  “One must remember,” said Data, moderating, “that it is the nature of a conspiracy to be secret. Our inability to readily identify its members is an indication neither that it exists nor that it does not. Both are equally
valid propositions.”

  “Which brings us back to Gezor,” noted La Forge. “He’s still our only lead.”

  “I believe,” said the ambassador, “that a reference to square one would be appropriate here.”

  “We must do something,” growled the Klingon. “Whoever is behind these two incidents will continue to create havoc until we stop him. Or them.”

  “It appears that Lieutenant Worf is right,” said Data.

  Stephaleh spread her hands. “What would you have us do?”

  “How about contacting Gregach?” asked La Forge, “and telling him what we know about Gezor?”

  The ambassador weighed the option—and rejected it. “He will not listen,” she concluded. “He has already shut his ears to us. And he will be particularly disinclined to consider something like treachery on the part of his first assistant.” She frowned. “Not that I blame him. Why accept advice from someone you no longer trust—when it impugns the reputation of someone you still believe in? Perhaps if I had some proof of . . .”

  Her thought was cut off by the appearance of Ekrut, another of her Sullurh assistants. “Your pardon,” he said, “but there is someone downstairs to see you, Ambassador. His name is Thul, and he seems to have urgent news.”

  “Thul,” repeated Data. “Doctor Coleridge’s assistant?”

  All three of the officers were on their feet in an instant. Negotiating a course around her desk, Stephaleh followed.

  Worf was the first to reach Ekrut. “What news?” he thundered.

  Dismayed, Ekrut backed off a step. “The . . . the museum,” he said in a small voice.

  “What about it?” prodded the ambassador.

  “He—Thul says there was an explosion.”

  “Damn,” barked Geordi. “The professor was supposed to be at the museum today.” He touched Ekrut on the shoulder to reassure him. “Did he say anything about Professor Coleridge?”

  The Sullurh shrugged, glancing uncomfortably at the ambassador. “I am not certain,” he confessed. “He spoke of many things—and all at once. It was difficult to sort them all out.”

  “Come on,” said Worf. He plunged ahead, pressed the heat-sensitive plate that summoned the turbolift. The lift was waiting, and the doors opened instantly.

  All six of them entered, Ekrut last of all. “First floor,” commanded Stephaleh. The atmosphere in the cubicle was so thick that one could have choked on it.

  Then they were at ground level, the doors were opening, and there was Thul seated on a chair in the lobby, his head cradled in his hands.

  Again the Klingon charged ahead, followed by La Forge and Data. Stephaleh couldn’t keep up; her legs had cramped.

  When Thul saw them all coming, he looked up. But he didn’t cringe as Ekrut had. He simply stared, his large eyes glistening with reflected light.

  Worf stopped short of the Sullurh, his question already answered. His hands balling into fists, he snarled like a beast at bay.

  “Oh, my God,” said Geordi. Apparently he had his own way of gauging the situation; he didn’t need to actually see the tears.

  “Has something happened to Professor Coleridge?” asked Data—somewhat innocently, Stephaleh thought.

  Drawing a ragged breath, Thul regarded the android. He nodded.

  The museum had been one of the more popular tourist attractions—the operative words being “had been.”

  Now the small structure, which had been so carefully stocked with the treasures of the Ariantu race that digs had produced, was little more than an archaeological memory itself.

  Geordi was the first one out of the transmat booth, which quickly discharged Stephaleh, Worf, Data, and Thul. They almost crashed into Geordi, for the chief engineer had come to a dead halt a mere couple of yards in front of the booth.

  A huge hole had been blown in the side of the two-story building, and the roof had collapsed. The explosion had been so powerful that windows in the neighboring buildings for two blocks around had been blown out. Even though the calamity had occurred some minutes before, a fine mist of debris still hung in the air.

  Crowds of people were milling around in confusion as a rescue crew sifted through the rubble.

  And a body lay off to the side, covered by a blanket.

  Geordi ran toward it even as he heard Thul muttering behind him, “The museum wasn’t open yet. She was the only one there! I should have been helping her. It should have been me.”

  Geordi skidded to a halt. He dropped to his knees and hesitated over the blanket, not wanting to pull it back. Knowing what he would find. . . .

  He wasn’t sure what happened next. All he knew was that he had turned away without removing the blanket. He was sitting there, his knees drawn up to his chin, slowly shaking his head. Data was standing in front of him, Worf off to the side. Thul looked grief-stricken.

  “She was kind to me,” Thul was saying. “She never condescended. She treated me as an equal. She treated everybody that way.”

  “It’s her under there,” said Geordi. “Isn’t it, Data?” It wasn’t really a question.

  Data nodded.

  Slowly Geordi turned and brought himself to lift away the blanket. He “saw” the object under there, but that’s all it was. An object. Not a human being, not someone filled with life and hope and enthusiasm. Just a lifeless sack of flesh.

  He ran his fingers over her face.

  Once that had been the only way a blind man could discern features. Now Geordi’s VISOR provided him with other means, but they were mechanical. Distant. Cold.

  Cold, like her skin. He traced the gentle lines of her face . . . and then gasped at the indentation he discovered, where a falling piece of the building must have crushed her temple. Her cheek was sticky, and he realized that it was dried blood that made it so.

  He pulled away, holding his hand away from him as if it were a separate piece that he could remove. “Thul,” he said softly, “was it quick? Did Nassa . . . suffer?”

  Slowly Thul came toward him. “She was still alive when I found her,” he said. “I pulled her from the rubble. But she died right afterward.”

  “She never regained consciousness?”

  “For a moment,” said Thul softly. He paused. “She said something just before she died. She said, ‘Maud Muller.’ ”

  Geordi sat there, uncomprehending. “What? Who is that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe,” Geordi said quickly, “maybe this Maud Muller is the one who blew up the building. Or maybe—”

  But Data was shaking his head. “No, Geordi.”

  “What? Well, then, who—”

  “ ‘Maud Muller,’ ” said Data, “is a poem, by John Greenleaf Whittier. A couplet from it is very well known. It is ‘For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: “It might have been!” ’ I believe that is what she was referring to.” He paused thoughtfully. “Of course, sometimes she tended to misattribute her sources. So it is possible that—”

  “Shut up!” It was a cry of agony from Geordi. “Just shut up, Data! You think you know every damned thing in the world. You don’t know anything! She was talking about all the things she could have accomplished. Maybe she was even talking about her and me and—and you’re going on about sources! Who gives two credits, huh? She’s dead! Can’t you understand that?”

  Data stood there for a long moment, and then he bent down and placed a hand on the shoulder of his grieving friend.

  “No,” he said.

  Geordi looked up at him.

  “I comprehend,” said Data slowly. “I can even attempt to approximate mourning. But I do not understand.”

  In a sense, Data envied Geordi his grief. When Tasha Yar died, he had felt an emptiness, as if something had been removed. But no genuine grief. Perhaps that emotion was something that had been deliberately left out of his makeup in order to spare him unnecessary difficulty.

  And why should he be spared something that all sentient beings had to suffer
in one way or another? He knew the answer even before he had completed the question in his mind: because he would have to experience so much more of it for so much longer. He did not know the limitations of his durability, but there was a good chance that he was immortal by human standards.

  Geordi, Worf . . . they would live their allotted spans, mourn those they lost, then die and be mourned in turn. But Data would lose everyone—and still go on, remaining untouched by each loss.

  Decades from this place, this time, young Wesley Crusher would die, perhaps in the android’s arms. And they would be the same arms, the same Data that stood now on Kirlos in the ruins of the museum building.

  Others would come, people who had not yet been born, and their lives, too, would pass before his eyes. He would cross the decades, the centuries, with the gift of immortality, which so many had sought—and he would lament it. Unable to die, unable simply to shut himself off, since his inexorable desire for knowledge would compel him to continue.

  Friends and grandchildren of friends will die, he thought, and I will mourn them all, as best I can. But no one will ever mourn me.

  Geordi was silent for a long moment. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Data,” he said softly.

  “It was very human of you,” said Data.

  Geordi reached under the blanket, took the cold hand in his. “She meant so much to me, I can’t even begin to tell you. When you’re blind, you need someone to help put the world in focus. That’s what she did. I was very different in those days, Data. Very inwardly directed. She helped me to look outward and love the world . . . and myself. And I thought I knew her so well. Then we came here, and I realized there was so much more about her. You don’t think of teachers as people, y’know? You think of them as . . . teachers. These separate beings that exist only in classrooms. So to encounter her now, so different—it was exhilarating. It made me feel so young again, like it was in the old days when everything, absolutely everything, was a mystery.”

  He shook his head and frowned. “We’ve got to find the ones who did this, Data. We’ve got to find the ones responsible. They can’t get away with this.”