“We’re trying to get a fix on that distress signal,” said La Forge. “It’s moving, and there’s interference in the background—like solar flares or something.”
“If you do get a fix, use it for a course setting,” ordered the captain. “Otherwise, pick an inhabited planet. Maximum warp. Alert Starfleet of our intentions.”
“Yes, Sir,” answered Riker, his voice showing no surprise. “We’ve got to pick up a few people on the planet. Do you want me to tell the team that we’re going to have to postpone our current mission?”
“No, I’ll tell them,” said Picard regretfully as he moved to the turbolift. “Get us moving as fast as you can.”
“Thank you, Sir,” added Geordi La Forge, sounding as if the engineer had a personal interest in sector 4368.
“Keep trying to raise them,” ordered the captain. “I don’t want to waste our time on a wild-goose chase.”
five
A dry wind crackled across the baked-clay walls and rambling, earthen dwellings of Patoorgiston, the capital of Hakon’s sole inhabitable continent. The hand-molded walls had wide arches every twenty meters or so, and inside the arches were clay pots full of flowers and candles, swaying in the searing breeze.
Most of the dwellings were two story and looked like children’s blocks, piled one upon another. The upper levels were smaller, allowing the outer edge of the lower roof to be a balcony. Children played fearlessly on these narrow labyrinths, which were connected by ladders and stairs; the Tellarites had good balance and seldom had accidents despite their bulk. Although the earthen houses looked similar in color and shape, they were distinguished by curtains, banners, and laundry in large, bright plaids, flapping from every window and balcony.
The inhabitants themselves wore these same kind of brilliant, often clashing squares of color as they bustled up and down the rambling streets. Some of them rode solar-powered, two-wheeled scooters, which breezed along the bumpy thoroughfares, narrowly missing the pedestrians. The Tellarites were vocal, and their loud voices carried on the wind, which was hot and dry, just the way they liked it.
Every so often, a face appeared in the crowd which did not have orange hair and a prominent snout, but the outsiders were few in number. Most of them were headed toward the only four-story building in town, the Cultural Affairs Center, which was a hub of interplanetary commerce. A bushy crown of salt-and-pepper hair towered above the Tellarites, Ferengi, Valtese, and the rest of the pedestrians. He was the lone Klingon, and the others gave him and his handler wide berth.
“We’re almost there,” said the cultural affairs attaché, Solia, guiding the grizzled Klingon down the walkway.
Maltz squinted into the bright sunlight, thinking that if he had any klin at all, he would shake off this simpering flunky and crawl back into a dark tavern. But that old call to duty still stirred him, even though everything he did in this post was pointless. Most days he felt like a sideshow attraction. Look at the Klingon! Hakon is important enough to have one of its very own.
Maltz couldn’t believe it had taken them this long to walk a few blocks, but he hadn’t been paying attention. It seemed it was now afternoon, and he had left home that morning, hadn’t he? His keeper must have led him on a merry stroll, trying to sober him up. Well, it hadn’t worked! He was still drunk.
He looked down at the small figure holding him up. Well, she was small for a Tellarite. The Klingon knew he ought to take her in his arms and protect her, instead of the other way around. But he was beyond offering protection to anyone, including himself. Now he had to be guided around like an old fool, propped up against the wall to be admired like the relic he was. Maltz was old enough to remember fighting against these people on a daily basis, before the Khitomer Accords. How had he turned from a proud warrior to a broken-down souvenir for the conquering enemy?
“When did we lose?” he muttered.
“What did you say, Consul?”
“When did we lose!” he thundered. “When did a pack of puny do-gooders take over our lives and our heritage and turn us into diplomats? A whore you dress up and show off for dinner—not a warrior. But this is what I’ve been reduced to by the Federation.”
Solia laughed nervously as she tried to ignore the stares of passersby. “Why, Sir, you haven’t lost anything. The Klingon Empire is still as powerful and respected as ever. You’re her representative—you should know.”
“Yes, I know very well,” grumbled Maltz. “The niceness and even-handedness of the Federation has spilled over, infecting us. There is no way to die with honor anymore.” He swallowed hard and rasped, “No way to redeem myself.”
“Now, Sir, you can’t blame every misfortune in life on the Federation.”
Maltz laughed harshly. “In my case, I can. Although I should blame Kruge as much as Kirk.”
“Kruge and Kirk?” asked the young Tellarite doubtfully.
“Before you were born,” snapped the Klingon with a derisive snort. “That was when the captain of a starship was a force unto himself, a sovereign with no equal. It’s not diplomats and massive fleets who decide history, it’s out there . . . where two captains meet in the eye of the storm!” He shook his head miserably. “And destroy my career.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” replied Solia briskly, her patience running out at the same time the assignment was mercifully coming to an end. “We’re here. Now watch it, because there are some steps.”
Maltz finally had enough of this simpering lackey. He straightened his cloak and yanked his gleaming chain-mail sash across over his gaunt frame. Then he leaped up the stairs to the landing. “I can make it from here. There must be some other infants somewhere who need your attention.”
“I’m sure,” she answered with a smile. “Straight ahead to the reception desk and sign in with . . . Consul Maltz!”
But the Klingon was already headed toward the refreshments, his nostrils flaring at the smell of food. With a few long strides, he was across the lobby and into the ballroom, where a gathering of notables from the city and many surrounding planets were enjoying the hastily assembled soiree. Tellarite servers bustled among them with steaming trays of food and tinkling glasses of blue Saurian ale. The old Klingon skidded to a stop and licked his cracked lips.
A Tellarite waiter passed by with a tray full of fluted glasses containing the bluish liquid, and Maltz quickly seized him. “Don’t be in such a hurry.”
“Of course, Sir!” said the young Tellarite with a trace of awe and fear in his voice at being waylaid by a Klingon. He started to offer a glass to the dignitary when the Klingon grabbed the whole tray of glasses.
“Get another one,” he grumbled. “I’m thirsty.”
The Tellarite nodded and hurried off, while Maltz looked around the demurely decorated ballroom. From a nearby serving table, he grabbed a vase full of flowers, dumped the flowers and the water under the table, and began to pour the contents of the fluted glasses into the vase. When he was done, he finally had a warrior-sized receptacle that fit his hand, and it was already full of ale.
As he mingled among the crowd, looking for servers with food, Maltz heard a voice call, “And there he is! Maltz, our esteemed Klingon representative!”
The old warrior froze in his tracks and slumped his shoulders. He knew that voice—it was Bekra, the Capellan consul and self-appointed social director of the diplomatic community. Maltz turned around to face the elaborately dressed consul and his retinue, softening his scowl to a mild frown. On his head, Bekra wore a conical turban the shape of a tornado, and its rich fabric trailed seamlessly into his bejeweled turquoise jumpsuit.
“Consul Maltz,” said Bekra, sliding unctuously toward him. “We have some distinguished visitors from the Neutral Worlds. They’re making a swing through the Federation colonies, discussing trade opportunities. We’re so glad you could come on such short notice.”
“I would not miss it,” grumbled Maltz, taking a long drink of ale as he surveyed the half-dozen newcomers t
o their midst. A grinning Orion, plus two unsightly Talavians, a bug-eyed Dopterian, a sinewy Mikulak, and a green-skinned Rutian. Bekra assigned them all names as he introduced them, but the names flew right out of Maltz’s head the moment he heard them.
“Pleased to meet you,” he grumbled, mustering very little sincerity.
“Does the Klingon Trade Council do much business here on Hakon?” asked the Rutian, whose long, stringy hair had more streaks of white than Maltz’s.
The Klingon dug deep in the recesses of his memory for an innocuous response. “We would like to do more, which is why we are all here, right?”
“As you know, the Klingons require more security controls than are typical,” said Bekra, the know-it-all. “Consul Maltz spends a great deal of his time checking to make sure that all the conditions are met.”
“Yes, I do,” lied the Klingon, who rubber-stamped everything that crossed his desk. He took a long swig of ale and wiped the excess from his beard with the back of his gauntlet. “How long are you staying on Hakon?”
The Orion answered, “Long enough to see what the populace needs, and what they have to offer in trade.”
Bekra broke in, “The locals manufacture a natural cloth here that is unlike anything else in the Federation. It’s strong, tough, resistant to mildew, and—”
He went on, but Maltz managed to corral a passing waiter and confiscate about half a tray of truffles. He tuned out the conversation while he ate, but he caught the Orion looking intently at him. He wasn’t surprised when the visitor sidled up to his elbow a moment later.
“There’s something familiar about you,” said the Orion in a low voice. “Maybe it’s that scar. Have we met before?”
Maltz tapped the crooked dent in his forehead ridge and peered down at the snaggletoothed trader. “I have met a lot of people,” he said warily. “And my memory is not so good.”
“I’m sure of it.” The Orion tugged thoughtfully on a giant ear-lobe as his beady eyes studied the Klingon’s face. “What did you do during the war?”
“That is none of your business,” answered Maltz defensively.
“He was right here with the rest of us,” said Bekra. “Sweating it out.”
But the Orion was shaking his finger and smiling with satisfaction. “Yes, I remember it now. I never forget a face, especially not a distinctive one like yours! It was probably thirty years ago, when I was in the prison supply business.”
“I am not interested,” grumbled Maltz. Actually he had no idea what the Orion was about to say, but he truly didn’t want to hear anything about his past, whether it was factual or not.
“You were a bounty hunter.”
Now the Klingon’s stomach heaved, and he felt the bile of almost a century of dodging the past come surging up his throat. Maltz gripped his larynx and caught the bile before it spilled out, then he caught the snide Orion by the throat and lifted him off the tiled floor.
“Yes, I have been a bounty hunter,” he snarled, “and worse than that. But I have never been a freeloader who drifts in here out of nowhere expecting to be wined and dined for free!”
“Maltz!” shouted Bekra with alarm, trying to pry his grip from the gagging Orion. “Set him down!”
It was then the Mikulak and the Dopterian attacked Maltz, with the Mikulak wrapping long tentacles around his neck, while the shorter Dopterian punched him rapidly in the stomach. The Klingon had to drop the Orion, but he smashed his vase over the Dopterian’s head, coating the bug-eyed creature in blue ale. Then he grabbed the tray of truffles and smashed the Mikulak into submission, while he laughed with delight.
The two Talavians tackled Maltz from the rear and propelled him into a serving table, which crumpled under their weight, spilling punch and desserts over all of them. The melee continued on the floor in a churning heap of limbs and foamy punch. Maltz was all elbows, fists, and hobnailed boots, smashing anything that came within range.
Ah, it felt good to fight! There were no friends or enemies, just the enemy—he had to silence them all! Maltz barely noticed when three beefy constables rushed in from the street and joined the fray.
“Cowards!” he roared.
The old Klingon was still hollering and kicking when the exasperated constables leaped to their feet, drew phaser pistols, and shot him with pinpoint blue beams.
Peace at last, thought Maltz as his body stilled and consciousness drifted away.
“Geordi,” said Data, tapping his friend on the shoulder. He kept his voice low in the efficient hum of activity on the bridge. “I must speak with you.”
“Just a minute,” answered the engineer impatiently as he gazed at his readouts. “The long-range sensor scan is just coming in, and it’s pretty bizarre. I can’t figure out what’s going on out there.”
“We should know in twelve hours and forty-five minutes,” said the android. “Meanwhile, I have a recital to perform, and you have a date.”
Geordi scowled and finally looked up from his console among the circle of stations on the Enterprise bridge. Commander Riker was conferring with the officer on the conn, probably refining their course setting. “Can’t you pick her up?” whispered Geordi. “She’s interested in seeing you, anyway.”
The android leaned closer. “We are enroute at maximum warp, and your concern will not make us reach Outpost Seran-T-One any faster.”
Geordi blinked at his friend, feigning ignorance. “What do you mean . . . Seran-T-One? Why there?”
“Is that not where Dr. Leah Brahms lives?” asked Data with sympathy. “In addition, every long-range scan you have done has been centered on Outpost Seran-T-One.”
Geordi smiled, thinking that Data didn’t miss much. “Okay, so I’m worried about her. Do you think we’ll get back to the bridge fairly soon?”
Data cocked his head thoughtfully. “I will play the violin six percent faster and cut out my curtain call.”
“Okay, it’s a deal.” Geordi rose from the station and crossed the center clearing to Commander Riker. “Sir, Data and I will be back in a little while.”
“Get some rest,” suggested Riker. “We’ll let you know if we find out anything of interest, but I kind of doubt it. Data, sorry I’ll miss the show.”
The android nodded with tacit understanding, and he waited by the turbolift until La Forge caught up. The two of them boarded the lift and went hurtling down to level six, where there was a wing devoted to guest quarters, close to the main shuttlebay for convenience sake.
For once, Data didn’t practice his small talk, and Geordi was grateful for the silence. The engineer tried to tell himself there were a million logical—or even implausible—reasons for the communications to be out while the population was still fine. They weren’t at war, and there hadn’t been any unusual activity reported by any of the posts or settlements. Still, he had seen enough in his twenty years in Starfleet to be worried about things that weren’t seen or reported.
He parted company with Data and quickly found the corridor devoted to guest quarters. Normally Geordi would have been nervous, but he had so much on his mind that this date seemed like an afterthought. He chimed her door and waited.
When the door opened, Dolores Linton was standing about a meter away from him, an intense look in her sultry eyes. She was dressed in a formfitting black evening gown that a regular crew member wouldn’t have dared to wear. A slit up to her thigh showed her muscular legs, while the sleeveless gown revealed an impressively developed upper body, too. Geordi could see an aura of vibrant energy about her, and he sincerely regretted that he would have to shortchange her on this date.
“Hello,” he said, trying to muster as much charm and enthusiasm as he could under a cloud of worry. “I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late.”
“Don’t worry about that. Come in.” With a firm grip, she took his arm and pulled him into the small single quarters. The room was cluttered with climbing gear, collection boxes, chemicals, stasis bags, tricorders, and other tools of her profession, and
there was barely room to stand.
The geologist put her hands on her hips and demanded. “Okay, what is the deal with them canceling our mission?”
Geordi was caught off guard by this topic of conversation, but of course that had to be a big disappointment to the visiting team of specialists. Plus they probably hadn’t been told very much about the circumstances.
“Well, it’s only been postponed while we check something out,” he answered. “This kind of thing happens, especially to the Enterprise.”
“What are we checking out?” she asked bluntly.
“Loss of contact with a sector not far from here.” He shrugged. “It will probably turn out to be nothing, and we’ll only lose a couple of days. Are you ready to go see Data perform?”
“Looking forward to it,” she answered, taking his arm and gazing at him with those disconcerting dark eyes. “In fact, I have a lot of free time now, so tell me about everything there is to do on the Enterprise.”
“Well, we have a large library, an exercise facility, recreation room, and holodecks, although you need a reservation for those.” The door opened, and they strolled into the corridor.
“Holodecks aren’t my cup of tea,” said Dolores, shaking her medium-length brown hair. “I prefer real thrills and real fresh air. Please don’t tell the ship’s doctor, but I suffer from a bit of claustrophobia. I’m always glad to get out of these tin cans and back to solid ground, even if it’s a Class-H planetoid.”
“A Class-H planetoid?” asked Geordi, only half-listening.
“You’re a million light-years from here, Commander,” said the woman with bemusement. “Usually when I wear this dress, I have my date’s undivided attention.”
The Genesis Wave: Book One Page 6
