DOOMSDAY WORLD

by CARMEN CARTER, PETER DAVID, MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

  “Call a physician,” barked Ilugh. Someone went rushing out to comply. He put his ear to Stragahn’s chest, winced a little at the lack of a heartbeat. With the heel of his hand, he pounded at the big one’s breastbone—but to no avail. Stragahn was halfway to his ancestors.

  “Ilugh!”

  It was Hulg—he recognized the voice, whirled angrily. Then he saw the reason for the cry.

  Hulg was leaning over Dronagh’s bed. And Dro nagh wasn’t moving either. His eyes, like Stragahn’s, seemed to be fighting their way out of his head.

  It couldn’t have been organ failure—not in two of them at once.

  Then what?

  Poison? But Stragahn and Dronagh hadn’t eaten at the same place today.

  Suddenly he knew.

  “Gas,” he said out loud.

  But the word was hardly out of his mouth when a look of horror raked Onaht’s face—worse by far than what he’d looked like when he realized Stragahn was dead. He started wheezing, gasping for air—and in the space of a moment he had collapsed on the barracks floor.

  The others were petrified—too appalled, too fascinated, to move. Ilugh shocked them out of it with a snarl: “We’ve got to get out of here—now!”

  And as his comrades scrambled for the door, he grabbed a still-gasping Onaht under his arms. Mustering all his strength, he dragged him toward the exit.

  They had almost reached it when Ilugh began to feel light-headed. His throat was constricting; he felt as if someone were trying to strangle him.

  Still, he kept on going, too frantic to stop—out past the door, into the fresh air.

  But the struggle to breathe didn’t get any easier—instead, it got worse. And as the others gathered around him, trying to decide how they could help, he felt himself succumb.

  “What?” roared Gregach.

  Gezor stared at him. The Sullurh seemed taken aback by the outburst.

  But then, what had he expected? What would anyone have expected after announcing such a thing?

  The ambassador forced himself down into his chair. “Details,” he said, his jaw working so that his tusks swung forward and back. “I want details.”

  His assistant complied. “Four dead, eight survivors—and of the eight, two are comatose. The physicians have yet to complete their tests, but they seem to agree that there was a gas involved. Most likely, plethane.”

  Gregach rolled the information over his tongue. “Plethane?” he spat. “In concentrations sufficient to kill and maim my personal guards—right there in their barracks?” The ambassador knew that the gas occasionally escaped from underground—but only a wisp here and there. Never enough to create a danger to the populace. He found that his fingers were clenched into fists; he unclenched them. “Where did it come from?”

  The Sullurh shrugged that elaborate shrug of his. He seemed to be trying to hide from Gregach’s wrath.

  “So far,” Gezor said, “there is no evidence of a leak, which would seem to rule out a natural occurrence. The only other reasonable conclusion is that someone smuggled a self-destroying container filled with gas into the barracks. In other words, sabotage.”

  He appeared to be on the verge of saying something else. But he chose not to give voice to it.

  Of course the ambassador could not let it lie. “What?” he said. “Is there something more?”

  “Your pardon,” said the Sullurh. “I was about to offer an opinion—and the ambassador had asked only for facts.”

  Gregach grunted. “All right, then. Give me an opinion.”

  But still Gezor hesitated. “It may not be one you wish to hear,” he said at last.

  “You mean,” said the K’Vin, “the opinion that the Federation is behind these incidents?”

  “Yes,” said the Sullurh. “That one.”

  “It makes no sense—still Why would Stephaleh attack me—and deny it?”

  “Perhaps,” Gezor suggested, “to see how far you can be pushed.”

  The ambassador didn’t like the sound of that. “Explain yourself,” he said.

  “It may be,” answered the Sullurh, “that this is some sort of test—of the K’Vin’s propensity to defend themselves. After all, it has been more than three decades since the Federation had any real contact with the K’Vin Hegemony. Perhaps this is their way of determining whether you have any fight left in you.”

  Gregach leaned forward, unable to keep his voice from rising in frustration. “Toward what end, Gezor? To what purpose?”

  His assistant didn’t flinch this time. He spoke the words calmly, with a certain amount of purposefulness: “In preparation for conquest, Ambassador.”

  The K’Vin eyed the smaller being. He made it sound so simple, so reasonable. But of course it was neither of those things. It was a concept so huge and arrogant that Gregach would never have considered it on his own.

  And yet . . . could he afford to ignore it? If there was even a wisp of a possibility that his assistant had mined out the truth?

  “You are saying that Kirlos is a . . . a testing ground, Gezor? A laboratory?”

  “Yes, Ambassador. And if we do not respond with appropriate quickness and strength, we will be inviting the same sort of events on a larger scale. Eventually, perhaps, the fall of the entire Hegemony.”

  Gregach cleared his throat. “And the disasters on the Federation side? The complaints that we received concerning them?”

  “Distractions,” said the Sullurh. “Attempts to explore our capacity for clear thinking. Or else the Federation’s efforts to justify their atrocities in the eyes of some interested third party—whom we cannot, of course, identify at this time.”

  The ambassador sighed. He was almost sorry that he had opened the floodgates on this copious flow of conjecture.

  At bottom, he still did not give credence to any of it. He did not believe that his choices here and now would determine the fate of the entire K’Vin civilization.

  However, his beliefs were not all that mattered. He also had to consider the beliefs of his superiors, anticipate their reactions to the news of this second incident on K’Vin soil.

  And it was possible, just possible, that one or more of them might conclude, as Gezor had, that these incidents of sabotage were a prelude to invasion. In which case he had better appear to be taking steps to forestall such a possibility.

  But what might those steps be? Unable to think of any himself, he asked his assistant.

  Gezor wasn’t slow in answering. Obviously he had thought this all out beforehand. “There is only one measure that will absolutely prevent any further incidents, Ambassador. And that is to assume control of the Federation embassy.”

  Gregach’s stomach churned at the very idea of it. “Do you know what you’re saying, Gezor?”

  The Sullurh nodded, undaunted. “Yes. But I repeat—it is the only way to ensure an end to these disasters.”

  The ambassador snorted. “It is unacceptable. There must be other ways of securing ourselves against these attacks—at least until we can be certain who is perpetrating them and why.”

  This time it took Gezor a moment. “To begin with, a more rigid enforcement of the line dividing Kirlosia; any Federation-sider even caught near K’Vin territory must be incarcerated. Second, a passive display of military force—perhaps the positioning of embassy guards along the Strip, to show the Federation that we will not tolerate further acts of aggression . . .”

  Gregach growled.

  The Sullurh straightened. “On the chance, of course, that the Federation is responsible for the incidents. Third, a tightening of security in and around the embassy and other potential targets. And fourth—”

  “Gods of blood and destruction, Gezor! There is a fourth?”

  That wide-eyed stare. “You asked for recommendations, Ambassador.”

  Gregach took a deep breath, blew it out. “Yes, of course I did. Proceed.”

  “Fourth,” resumed the Sullurh, “the institution of martial law. To confine the reacti
on of the populace when they learn of the gas attack on your guards.”

  Now that Gregach thought of it, there had been stirrings of unrest among the K’Vin. Nothing like what was rumored to be taking place on the Federation side—but then, the K’Vin were a more disciplined people. Any unrest at all was probably something to be concerned about.

  It was uncanny how Gezor sometimes seemed to know the ambassador’s people better than the ambassador did. Quite uncanny.

  “Very well,” he told the Sullurh. “See to it that these measures are carried out.”

  Gezor inclined his head. “Of course, Ambassador.”

  Business at Busiek’s had dropped off somewhat since all of the trouble started. Fights had been breaking out between sentients who had previously been content to give one another a wide berth. Now the slightest look, the most minuscule offhand gesture, was cause for hostilities. As a result, many of the regulars had stopped coming in.

  Sullurh business, however, had picked up. Busiek was not particularly thrilled about that, because Sullurh tended to order one drink and sit at a table forever. Waitresses ignored them, yet they kept on coming. Other customers belittled them, badmouthed them, and made their lives miserable, but they kept on coming.

  And still, thought Busiek ruefully, when every other sentient race in Kirlosia had found someplace else to go, or maybe another building to blow up, the Sullurh kept on coming. And there were more of them now, because the races that had been picking on them weren’t around to do so anymore.

  Now the Sullurh were paying the bills. Funny how it all came around.

  The Sullurh all tended to blend together to him. So Busiek thought nothing of the fact that Gezor sat at a corner table hidden in the shadows, because Gezor meant nothing to him. Nor did the individual with whom Gezor was conversing.

  But if the K’Vin ambassador had seen that his aide, Gezor, was having an urgent, huddled conference with Zamorh, Stephaleh’s aide, then both Gregach and Stephaleh would have been very interested to know just what those two worthies might be discuss ing. Gregach and Stephaleh were not there, however—a fact of which Gezor and Zamorh were quite aware.

  The ice in their drinks had long since melted when Gezor and Zamorh finished their discussion after what, to Busiek, seemed like hours. As they rose from their seats, leaving money on the table for the waitress, a soft, pulsing sound came from Gezor’s pocket.

  The two Sullurh looked at each other significantly as Gezor pulled out a small unit.

  “Well, that was to be expected,” said Zamorh slowly. “We’ll have to make some preparations, won’t we?”

  “I can arrange it,” said Gezor. “Give me five minutes to send word ahead, and then we’ll leave.”

  Zamorh nodded approvingly and sat back down.

  Behind the bar, Busiek sighed. He’d thought they were leaving. Couldn’t get rid of the damned Sullurh, even when you really shouldn’t want to.

  “How do we know they’re in there?” rumbled Worf.

  The away team and Thul, who had insisted on coming along, stood in the shadows of an alley directly across the street from Busiek’s.

  “It’s elementary,” replied Data.

  Worf stabbed a finger at Data. “I am not certain,” he said tightly, “why you are speaking in that odd manner, with that peculiar accent, and saying ‘It’s elementary,’ ‘Come, come, Watson,’ and ‘The game is afoot.’ I do know that it is beginning to seriously annoy me.”

  “Ease up, Worf,” said Geordi. “Or are you going to threaten to shoot him?”

  “Do not tempt me,” said Worf ominously.

  “I shall endeavor to refrain from using Holmesian phrases,” said Data. “I suspect, however, that Gezor remains the link to all of this. Possibly Zamorh as well. I believe that Gezor’s appearance at the embassy may have been a signal to someone else to perform the act of sabotage, or perhaps he was carrying a detonation device that had to be within a certain range. I believe that he and Zamorh have been prodding the ambassadors to make moves that would lead to war.”

  “But why?” said Geordi.

  “I am not certain,” admitted Data. “Since they are both seconds-in-command, they may be maneuvering to dispense with their superiors in the hope of obtaining higher rank.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” said Geordi, though he had some rather large doubts about Sullurh being elevated to lofty positions.

  “Striving for power has always been a legitimate motive in the Klingon Empire,” agreed Worf. “On the other hand, the Sullurh do not seem aggressive enough to—”

  “Look!” Data said suddenly. They ducked back into the shadows.

  Gezor was emerging from the bar.

  “I knew it,” said Data. “The meeting at Busiek’s the other day was not happenstance. It must be a regular meeting place, where Gezor can confer with—ah!”

  Right behind Gezor came Zamorh.

  “How intriguing,” said Worf. “The seconds for both ambassadors. It would seem,” he admitted, despite his earlier judgment, “that Lieutenant Commander Data’s supposition of collusion was correct.”

  “Elemen . . . uh, thank you.”

  Geordi was suddenly struck by a thought. “Thul,” he said slowly, “they’re Sullurh, like you. Have you by any chance heard of—”

  “Heard of any of this?” said Thul, shocked. “I can assure you, Mr. La Forge, I was loyal to Dr. Coleridge. Some of these young people“—he gestured toward the retreating forms of Gezor and Zamorh—”get crazy ideas, crazy schemes. I don’t know what goes on in their heads. If I had heard anything, I assure you I would have notified the proper authorities. Of course, who would listen to a Sullurh?”

  “Obviously, the ambassadors would listen,” said Geordi. “Data, come on, they’re getting away.”

  “Not this time,” said Data calmly, and he held up a tricorder. “I’ve locked on to their life readings so that we will be able to track them while staying completely out of sight. I believe that Gezor knew we were following him last time, because he spotted us in the bar. On this occasion, they will be given no opportunity to see us.”

  This time Gezor did not go down Embassy Run but instead went directly into the back streets behind Busiek’s, with Zamorh right behind him. And right behind the two of them were the Federation trio and Thul.

  They made their way through the shadows, following Worf’s lead, for he was easily the stealthiest of them. Having a track on the life readings of those they were pursuing certainly simplified matters.

  “Clear the streets! Curfew! Everyone off the streets!”

  The voice was coming through a public address system. The away team and Thul hid themselves in an alleyway as a squadron of K’Vin made their way toward them with their weapons slung, but clearly prepared for trouble. The seal of the K’Vin Diplomatic Corps was emblazoned on their shirts, and Worf realized immediately that they were from the embassy. It was easy, the Klingon mused, to be diplomatic when you had superior firepower.

  He was holding his phaser at the ready, prepared to start firing on the patrol if necessary, but Data noticed and gave a quick shake of his head.

  Slowly the patrol passed by them; they waited until it was a safe distance away before they continued.

  Geordi was extremely glad that the tricorder was guiding them. They were deep into the back streets when he remembered something Nassa had said—says, present tense, he reminded himself, thinking of the way she had spoken of her husband. If there was an afterlife then they were deservedly together—about how easy it was to get lost in the back streets. She had been quite correct. Nothing was marked, and the streets seemed to intersect and crisscross according to no perceptible pattern. Probably laid out that way on purpose, he reasoned, to keep outsiders away.

  But Data’s pursuit was steady and certain as he led them around one corner and then another.

  “They’ve stopped moving,” Data said suddenly. “Perhaps they’ve arrived at their destination. And they are not very far
ahead of . . .”

  He paused.

  “What is it?” said Worf urgently.

  “We are being followed,” said Data. “I hear them.”

  Worf did not, but that was no surprise. His hearing was not as acute as that of the android. “How many?”

  “Four. Perhaps five.” He spun suddenly. “And from in front. More.”

  “Why didn’t the tricorder pick them up?” said Worf in annoyance.

  “I had to keep it narrowcast to only those two,” replied Data. “Otherwise I would have picked up the life readings of everyone around us in the city.”

  “Quickly, this way,” said Worf, and he pointed to an alleyway heavy with shadows. The others followed him in.

  They huddled against the walls, watching carefully. Moments later, Worf and Geordi heard what Data had heard earlier, and then the street beyond the alleyway was crowded with at least a dozen Sullurh, muttering to one another. Half had come from behind the trio, while the rest had come from in front—and the two groups seemed surprised to have run into each other without running into the Enterprise men.

  Moments later they vanished back into the enfolding darkness of the back streets.

  “What were they saying?” Worf asked.

  “They were speaking very quickly,” said Data, “but I believe I caught the word ‘above’ several times.”

  “Above?” said Geordi. “Above what?”

  And with preternatural silence, the Sullurh suddenly dropped down from above.

  Within an instant the alleyway was filled with struggling people.

  Three of them were attempting to overpower Data, and yet the android’s first priority was to glance at their feet. They were barefoot, and the soles of their feet were curiously padded. They had managed to sneak up overhead after removing their boots. Data found that intriguing as he scrambled to his own feet, lifted two of the Sullurh over his head, and hurled them into the street.

  He spun quickly to face the third; the Sullurh was aiming some sort of device at Data. The android moved toward it with blinding speed—but not fast enough to stop the Sullurh from pressing a button.

  Instantly, an explosion seemed to go off inside Data’s head. He spun, imagining that sparks were leaping from his eye sockets, and when he tried to call for help it came out as a bizarre, high-pitched chirp.