The door creaked open behind him, and he turned to see his mother walk out, carrying a plate of his favorite treats, bazoban bars. He mustered a smile for his parent, who was grinning broadly at him, but it was difficult to feign happiness. While she baked his favorite foods, while his father searched the closet for his favorite peg-jumping game, the minutes were ticking away. Already they had only twelve hours left, and his parents still could not fathom the seriousness of the situation.
It had been so long since Mot had seen his parents that he hadn’t wanted to interject doom and gloom into their reunion, but the doom was very real. As soon as his father returned from rummaging through the closet, Mot was going to level with his parents—and force them to make a decision. He could slap himself now for not having come months sooner to visit them, but like most young people, he was selfish and wrapped up in his own life. Mot vowed never to let that happen again.
“Eat! Eat!” his mother encouraged him, shoving the plate of goodies under his nose. “It’s your favorite.”
“I know,” he said, grabbing one of the fruity bars and shoving half of it into his mouth. Mot hadn’t gotten to be as large as he was by being a slow eater. He chewed ruminatively as he watched the river flow by.
“How is that nice Captain Picard?” asked his mother.
“Fine,” answered Mot. “He never complains about his haircut. Of course, he doesn’t have much hair. Things have been peaceful on the Enterprise for many months now . . . until this.”
“Your sister says she is doing well in her new position,” Mother continued. “I’m certainly glad Bolarus isn’t facing this problem. It isn’t, is it?”
“No,” answered Mot with a grunt of relief. He didn’t say that their unknown enemy could always unleash the Genesis Wave again and again, until there was nothing left of the Federation but misshapen planets and old legends.
The door opened again, and his father came out with a dusty box in his hands. He looked older than Mot remembered, his once gleaming blue skin now pale and mottled. “Look, Son, I found it!” he claimed joyfully. “Your game of Tubes and Gutters! How about a quick match?”
With a heavy sigh, Mot set the plate of bazoban bars on the arm of his chair. “Mother . . . Father . . . we’ve got to talk and decide what you’re going to do. You’re lucky, in that you have more choices than most. Because I’m a member of the Enterprise crew, you can be evacuated from the planet.”
His father laughed. “Leave Myrmidon? Do you know how long we worked and saved to move here? Coming here has been a dream for all of our lives, hasn’t it, Mother?”
She nodded wistfully. “Yes. Nothing, except you children, has ever made us happier. Look at the beautiful view we have! Here there is enough room and land for everyone. You only have to be here for a few days to realize that this is truly the chosen planet.”
In exasperation, Mot jumped to his feet, knocking the plate of bazoban bars onto the patio with a clatter. Guiltily, he bent down to pick them up, but then he realized that he would have to be the adult here. Mot rose to his feet, leaving the food on the floor.
“Don’t pick it up,” he told his mother sternly. “In twelve hours, those crumbs won’t be here. That river won’t be here. The cottage won’t be here, and you won’t be here. Unless you’re evacuated or go to a shelter, you’ll be dead. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know if the shelters will work, but it’s the only way we have to save as many people as possible.”
The big Bolian knelt down and clasped his parents’ hands. “Please! Take this opportunity to come with me back to the Enterprise. I don’t want to call my sister and tell her that you’re dead . . . and that I could have saved you, but didn’t.”
His mother smiled benignly. “If it’s the will of the First Mother to change our world, then we will change with it.”
“No!” shouted Mot. “It’s not the will of the First Mother—it’s a weapon! A truly horrendous weapon.”
“Is there much suffering?” asked his father.
Mot well knew where that line of thinking was headed, and he wanted to head it off. “No, death will be very swift. You needn’t worry about that. But the thing is, you don’t have to die! If you refuse to be evacuated, will you at least go to the sanctuary in Genroh and wait there?”
The elder Bolians looked at one another and then at their little cottage, and Mot could tell they were still undecided. He screwed up his courage and added, “I’ll go with you. I’ll wait with you, too . . . until it’s over.”
“You won’t leave with the Enterprise?” asked his father with surprise.
“Not if you’re staying here.”
His mother squeezed his hand. “My son, we’ll all go together to the sanctuary.”
With that, Mot breathed an enormous sigh of relief and wrapped his arms around both of his parents, tears welling in his eyes. At long last, when the hug was over, his father picked up the old dusty box and asked hoarsely, “Now . . . how about a game of Tubes and Gutters?”
Maltz paced the now-empty radiation lab on the Enterprise, which he had made his home since the ship began filling with refugees days ago. He hadn’t realized that staying aboard the Enterprise meant staying alone, and that Leah Brahms would disappear. In fact, everybody on the ship was so busy that they were ignoring him. He thought momentarily about wreaking havoc, which would have been easy enough to do, but Starfleet was already in a more chaotic state than it had ever been. It seemed cowardly to kick them when they were down.
Besides, he might need their assistance to fulfill his blood oath. He certainly needed them to be reunited with Leah Brahms, wherever she was. The old Klingon had spent a lot of time alone in recent years, and he was content with his own company. He had also learned to be patient.
Maltz went to the replicator, wondering if it could produce a mug of ale. Finally, he rejected that idea, thinking he might need his wits about him; he settled for carrot juice, a Terran delicacy for which he had developed a taste. He was enjoying his glass of juice when the door whooshed open. In strode the tall first officer named Riker, and Maltz jumped to attention.
“You must be getting bored,” said Riker.
“A bit,” admitted Maltz.
“General Gra’Kor has asked for you to be reassigned to him. Are you ready to go?”
“Am I ready to go!” barked the Klingon happily. “Does a targ have spikes?”
Riker smiled. “Come on, let’s see if we can squeeze you onto the transporter.”
They exited the laboratory and strode down the corridor, which seemed oddly quiet. “Where is everyone?” asked Maltz.
“On the planet, getting ready for the wave.”
“How does it go?”
Riker frowned. “All I know for sure is that there are more interphase generators down there than in the whole Romulan Star Empire. I think we’ll save lives, but I wish I knew for sure.”
“How much time is left?” asked the Klingon.
Riker checked his chronometer. “About six hours.”
They reached the turbolift, and the first officer told the computer their destination. “Is Leah Brahms still on the planet?” asked Maltz.
“No, I was told she was over on the Sovereign. She didn’t want to stay on the planet.”
“She has good reason to stay alive,” said Maltz darkly. “Did your task force have any success finding the beasts who are doing this?”
“No,” muttered Riker, “although one of the ships turned up . . . deserted.”
“No sign of the crew?” asked the Klingon puzzledly.
Riker shook his head as the turbolift door opened. He strode out, and Maltz followed, smiling to himself. When vengeance would be wreaked, he would do the wreaking, not the Federation.
They reached the transporter room, and the cargo handlers moved aside enough boxes of gel-packs to make room on the platform for Maltz. Riker extended his hand, and the old Klingon gripped it forcefully.
“I hope you find peace,” said Riker.
“I hope I find war,” answered Maltz with a grin. “Tell Captain Picard he has a noble vessel and a fine crew, plus good hospitality.”
“I will.” The first officer nodded to the transporter operator. “Do you have the coordinates for the Jaj?”
“Laid in,” answered the tall Andorian on the console.
“Energize when ready.” A second later, the grizzled Klingon was gone.
He materialized in a much darker, smokier transporter room, where it was no less crowded. Only here it was jammed with confused Bolian evacuees, who never thought they would find themselves aboard a Klingon warship. With a few shoves and grunts, armed guards kept them moving quickly into the corridors.
“Consul Maltz,” said the transporter operator. “Wait here—the general is coming.”
Maltz moved out of the way and stood in the corner, waiting patiently until the stocky general arrived.
“Maltz!” Gra’Kor growled magnanimously as he strode into the room, slamming his palms on the old Klingon’s shoulders. “I called in some favors. Are you ready to see your ship?”
“My ship!” echoed Maltz in an awed tone of voice. “It’s been a long time since I had a ship.”
“I know,” said Gra’Kor, his brusque manner softening. “I’m sorry I said the things I did. A warrior shouldn’t have to suffer ninety years for one mission gone wrong.”
“But you were right!” insisted Maltz. “I have not tried hard enough to get to Sto-Vo-Kor. But now that I have another chance to face my greatest enemy, I know why I have lived so long.”
The general nodded sagely. “Do you know that the Federation has failed to find the source of this scourge?”
“Yes. Fate is saving them for me.”
“You have a good crew of experienced warriors,” said Gra’Kor. “I tried to pick those who have had dealings with humans, but I don’t know if they will follow a human female.”
“They will follow this one,” Maltz assured him. “What is the name of our ship?”
“The HoS. She is an older attack cruiser but still valiant. Her captain and first mate were promoted to larger ships, so she is perfect for your purpose. But enough talk—you must go. What is the name of the misguided human who invented this disaster?”
“Carol Marcus,” answered Maltz through clenched teeth. “If she yet lives, it will not be for long.” He bounded back onto the transporter pad, pushing two startled Bolians out of his way. “Thank you, General.”
“Qapla’!” said Gra’Kor with a salute and a toothy smile.
“I will see you in Sto-Vo-Kor,” promised the old warrior seconds before his molecules disappeared in a shimmering curtain of light.
* * *
Leah Brahms paced about three steps, then turned and paced three steps in the other direction, which was all the room she had in the quarters she shared with five Bolian evacuees on the Sovereign. Admiral Nechayev had treated her like a pariah ever since she came aboard, shunting her off with the refugees, who were just as miserable as she. They might have wondered what this human was doing in their midst, because there weren’t many non-Bolian residents on Myrmidon. They had to conclude that she wasn’t part of the rescue effort.
In their abject fear and misery, the evacuees talked very little to each other, and none of them talked to Leah. She considered speaking to them, but she didn’t trust herself to say anything positive. They certainly didn’t need to hear that the world they left behind, and probably most of their friends and relatives, would be reduced to sludge in a few hours. She didn’t really want to tell them that she was responsible for a desperate plan which had a good chance of getting everyone on Myrmidon killed.
Now Brahms knew why Admiral Nechayev’s name was spoken in hushed and fearful tones. The woman’s wrath was worthy of a wronged Klingon. Leah had been banished to this purgatory for a slip of the tongue, calling Geordi “crazy” for staying. The punishment didn’t seem to fit the crime, but she had no idea how to get out of it. More than likely, she was destined to be offloaded like so much cargo at the nearest Bolian spaceport, along with the rest of the refugees. It was an ignominious ending to what she had thought was a distinguished career.
Of course, decided Leah grimly, where else do I have to go? What else do I have to do? My life’s over, my marriage is over, my career’s over, and the only friend I have left is about to kill himself. Perhaps I should have stayed on the planet and taken my chances.
A chime sounded at the door, and one of the Bolians said hoarsely, “Come in!”
A young ensign with a padd in his hands stepped inside and looked around. “Which one of you is Leah Brahms?”
“I am,” she answered.
“Come with me, please.” He motioned to the corridor, then stepped out to wait for her.
“Where are we going?” asked Leah as she followed him.
“You’re being sent somewhere else.” He checked his padd. “The HoS.”
“The HoS? What is that?”
“A Klingon ship.” They walked briskly down the corridor, which was also packed with refugees, until they reached the turbolift.
Hmmm, thought Leah glumly, I must really be in the doghouse if the admiral is shipping me off to a Klingon vessel. She finally decided that it couldn’t be any worse than being cooped up on the Enterprise. Nevertheless, Leah spent a few irrational moments envisioning a brutal prison ship where she would spend her final days.
Moments later, she found herself in a frantic transporter room, where Bolian evacuees were being beamed aboard while crates were being shipped off at a rapid pace. The ensign conferred briefly with the transporter chief, and they made room for her on the transporter pad.
“Are you ready?” the chief asked her.
“Whatever,” she answered with a shrug. “Remind me not to run afoul of Admiral Nechayev again.”
“Never a good idea,” agreed the transporter chief as he plied his controls. “Energizing.”
A moment later, Brahms materialized on a dark, smoky bridge, where half-a-dozen sullen Klingon warriors stared suspiciously at her. She was about to ask what she was doing here, when the raised command chair in the center of the bridge swiveled around, and a rugged but familiar face grinned at her.
“Captain on the bridge,” said Maltz.
Brahms looked around, wondering which one of them was the captain, but all eyes were still focused on her. She felt an odd mixture of dread and elation.
Maltz rose to his feet and looked down at her. “What are your orders, Sir?”
Now it was Leah’s turn to grin. “You did it, Maltz! You got yourself a ship!”
“I got us a ship. I’ve already laid in a course for Seran and the suspected origin point of the Genesis Wave. I assume you will want to leave orbit immediately.”
Leah hesitated, thinking about Geordi and Dolores on the planet’s surface, but there wasn’t anything she could do for them, short of kidnapping them. They had volunteered of their own free will, and she had now been given an opportunity to exercise her will.
“Yes,” she said, “take us out of orbit.”
When her unfamiliar crew was a bit slow to move, Leah told herself to act more like Admiral Nechayev. “Move it!” she yelled. “I’ve got a blood oath to fulfill!”
That made them jump, and she turned to Maltz and said, “I’ve got to familiarize myself with this ship. Why don’t we begin with the engine room. I think I’ll feel more comfortable starting there.”
“Yes, Sir,” answered the old Klingon snappily. “You heard Captain Brahms! Second Officer Karuk, escort the captain to the engine room and answer all her questions fully.”
“Yes, Sir,” said a young officer, who still looked puzzled about how he could end up serving on a Klingon vessel under a human female. These were strange times indeed.
“Don’t worry,” Brahms told him, “the HoS is going to go down in history. And in glory.”
The young officer gave her a smile and nodded to his fellows, as if t
o say they were going to be all right. Leah decided he was awfully young to die, but millions who were even younger had already perished. At least everybody on the HoS would die for a purpose.
* * *
Deanna Troi nearly gagged at the musky smell of all the animals crowded into the Sanctuary of the First Mother, along with their owners and what seemed like half the city. Starfleet had been so worried about saving the Bolians that they hardly thought about saving animals, but the residents of Myrmidon were sure thinking about it, as they brought livestock and pets by the dozens. There were fur-bearing animals, milk-giving animals, primates, birds, reptiles, even insects—some of them in cages, many on leashes, and others running between people’s legs. It was like a land-bound Noah’s Ark.
Mother, the stocky woman who ran the sanctuary, welcomed all who came for protection, two-legged, four-legged, or six-legged. To make room, volunteers had removed the pews and every stick of furniture, except for the display case which contained the Crown of the First Mother. It was sitting in a prominent place, right on top of the interphase generator. Although people and animals were crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in every square centimeter of the domed building, Mother pushed her way through the throng, assuring everyone that they would be saved by the grace of the First Mother . . . and her Starfleet assistants.
Troi finally had to make her way outside to get some fresh air, even though there was less than an hour left before the Genesis Wave hit. To her surprise, she saw the sky had turned a salmon shade, streaked with crimson clouds. It was dusk, a suitable time for the great transformation which was about to come. The counselor was only supposed to stay for another half an hour before returning to the Enterprise, but it felt as if she were deserting her comrades on a sinking ship.
She toyed with the idea of gutting it out on the planet, but once again she talked herself out of it. Deanna had witnessed that awful cataclysm once, and once was enough. Besides, she didn’t think she could bear to see the beautiful city ravaged, as she knew it would be. Even if millions of lives were saved as planned, Myrmidon would be changed forever.
The Genesis Wave: Book One Page 28
