Star Trek - Double Helix, page 132
Picard didn’t think she posed a threat, however. So he stayed where he was and let the Benniar guards deal with the woman.
Under different circumstances, the thought of Benniari guarding anything effectively might have seemed ludicrous. Fortunately, they didn’t have to rely on their physical size. A touch of a button on their baldrics immobilized the woman’s limbs, if not her voice.
“Justice, Picard of the Federation!” she screamed. “Justice! Help us find the Cordracite killers of my Companion!”
The captain swallowed. “Those responsible for the terrorist attacks will be caught and punished, I assure you,” he said in the most tranquil voice he could muster, hoping desperately that fate would not prove him a liar. “But so far we have no proof that the Cordracites—”
“Who needs proof?” came the gurgling, hissing voice of one of the Shera’sha-sha. Its pale green tentacles waved frantically. “We all know what the Cordracites are! We all know what they do!”
“The Cordracites defend themselves against the aggressions of the Melacron, nothing more.” The flat voice of the skeletal-looking Tikraat who had spoken made the words a statement more than a defense.
No translation device ever devised could convey the emotions of the Tikraata. The best they could do was serve up the words, uttered in a mechanical, atonal voice. “It is the Melacron who—”
“Let us have order in this hall!” Picard cried out. His voice carried and the arguments ceased. For the moment, he thought darkly.
“Listen to yourselves!” he told the assemblage. “Squabbling like children tearing at a new toy! You are diplomats, every one of you. You represent the highest virtues your people have to offer. I understand that tempers are running high, but let us move forward with our eyes open—so that we may truly see and understand what is taking place!”
“The Melacronai murderers are getting away with it, that’s what’s taking place!” someone shouted.
Picard felt his jaw muscles clench. He held his hands up in a call for quiet, but no one would pay any attention to him. Abruptly, the clear, pure sound of the Benniari gong sliced cleanly through the melee.
“Let us recess for a few cycles,” said Cabrid Culunnh, who had taken up a position beside the captain. “As Captain Picard sagely counsels us, it is wiser to proceed thoughtfully and deliberately than to rush forward in the heat of emotion.”
The congress muttered its dissatisfaction, but it was obvious that nothing more could be accomplished that morning. The delegates rose and dispersed, still arguing among themselves.
The First Minister turned to Picard. “Thank you for trying, Captain,” he said in a soft, resigned voice. “Now you have some idea of the obstacles that confront me here.”
“Indeed I do,” Picard replied sincerely. He shook his head. “I doubt that Hercules had a more difficult time.”
“Hercules?” Culunnh echoed. He cocked his head, obviously curious about the captain’s reference.
“A great hero from one of my world’s mythologies,” Picard explained. “He was charged with seven supposedly impossible tasks. But in the end, he managed to complete them all.”
Understanding flitted over the Benniari’s furred face. Culunnh chirped once, and then again.
“Your Hercules,” he said dryly, “never had to get a Melacron and a Cordracite to stop arguing. Otherwise, he might still be at it.”
Picard acknowledged the truth of the comment. “Perhaps he would at that, First Minister.” He watched the delegates continue to filter out of the chamber, still contending bitterly. “Perhaps he would at that.”
Chapter Six
PICARD HAD NURTURED A HOPE that the afternoon session of the Kellasian Congress would be more productive than the morning session. That hope was dashed when the Cordracite delegation announced that it was absenting itself from the afternoon proceedings.
“For what reason?” Cabrid Culunnh asked.
“To protest the repeated admission of the Melacronai female,” was the indignant answer supplied by Sammis Tarv.
The captain sighed as he watched the Cordracites file out of the chamber with their heads bowed, to the disgust of some observers and the rather vocal approval of others. Clearly, they would not solve a territorial dispute with only one of the disputants present.
“Those Cordracites sure know how to ruin a party,” Ben Zoma observed in a voice only Picard could hear.
The captain nodded. “I imagine they’ve had lots of practice. But then, the Melacron seem no better.”
The afternoon session went ahead without the Cordracites. But as Picard had predicted, it didn’t get very far. In fact, it seemed to him that it took a few steps backward.
Tempers were running too high, the captain observed. Racial hatreds, some old, some new, had replaced rational objectives. No one was listening, everyone was talking, and poor Cabrid Culunnh seemed to get older and more exhausted by the minute.
The Kellasian Congress had become a joke. He could see that clearly now. Perhaps it had been effective before this latest wave of terrorist attacks, but it was effective no more.
Picard sincerely hoped his research team aboard the Stargazer was making headway. He and his first officer certainly weren’t.
At the midafternoon recess, the captain and Ben Zoma departed the podium. Their intention was to use the allotted seventeen cycles—approximately a half-hour of Earth time—to stretch their legs. Debennius II was a lovely planet, after all. Picard believed a brief walk beneath a soft blue sky might clear their minds a bit.
It was not to be, however. No sooner had Picard descended to the chamber’s central walkway than the large Thallonian he had observed earlier appeared suddenly at his side.
“Captain,” said the Thallonian in a smooth, cultured voice.
The human turned to him. “Yes?”
“Permit me to introduce myself,” the delegate told him. “I am Governor Gerrid Thul, here at the congress representing the interests of the Thallonian Empire.” Thul extended a large ruddy hand, demonstrating that he was familiar with human customs.
Picard shook the Thallonian’s hand. His grip was strong and firm, a rarity among aliens who attempted the handshake ritual.
“Jean-Luc Picard,” said the captain, though by now he was certain everyone knew precisely who he was. He indicated his companion. “And this is Gilaad Ben Zoma, my first officer.”
Thul shook Ben Zoma’s hand as well.
“We have seventeen cycles before the war of words begins again,” Thul told Picard. “Might I have a moment with you?” His eyes flickered to the first officer, then back to the captain. “In private?” he added.
Picard turned to Ben Zoma.
“Go ahead,” said the dark-haired man. “I should call up to the Stargazer anyway. I need to check on some things.”
The captain nodded, aware of at least some of the matters Ben Zoma would be checking on—all mundane but necessary aspects of ship’s business. Then he turned to the Thallonian. “Very well. Shall we speak outside? Or do you have somewhere else in mind?”
“Outside will be fine,” Thul told him.
Together, they made their way through the doors of the Grand Council Chamber and walked out into a beautiful, sunny day. Picard had to blink as his eyes adjusted to the brighter light.
In front of them, white stone steps led down to a circular pool with a fountain. The Thallonian approached it and peered into the sparkling depths. As the captain followed suit, he caught a glint of color—some kind of marine life, he realized.
A small bowl filled with some gray-green, crumbly matter stood on a nearby pedestal. Thul reached a big, red hand into it and began to sprinkle the surface of the water with the gray-green stuff. At once, the fish—if they could be called that, for they resembled no fish Picard had ever seen—darted to the surface and snatched at it.
The captain laughed as he realized what the stuff on the pedestal was. “Fish food,” he said.
The Thallonian glanced at him and smiled. “Indeed,” he said. He finished feeding the aquatic creatures, meticulously dusted off his hands, and turned to face Picard again.
“You asked to speak with me,” the captain noted, acutely aware of how little time they had before the session resumed.
“I did,” Thul agreed. He held his hands out, palms up. “Let me be blunt. How much do you know about our problems in this sector?”
Picard replied with equal bluntness. “Very little, I’m afraid. Only what’s generally known to all those assembled. But I assure you, I intend to learn a good deal more.”
The governor clasped his hands behind his back and stared into the depths of the fish pool. “Truly,” he said, “it is a shameful spectacle. Supposedly, it is over territory. But of course, it has become a great deal more than that in recent weeks.”
“You’ve been here that long?” asked the captain.
Thul nodded. “Too long, as you can imagine. I would much rather be back at my outpost, doing some real work. I need not tell you that attending these sessions has taken its toll on me.” He glanced at Picard. “But then, I’m sure there is somewhere else you would rather be as well.”
The captain grunted, thinking of the ruins on Zebros IV. “The same could probably be said of everyone in the congress…except perhaps the Cordracites and the Melacron themselves.”
“Except them,” the Thallonian agreed. “And they are closer than ever to an armed conflict—one which would take place precariously close to my emperor’s borders. As you can imagine, the revered Tae Cwan does not wish to see such a conflict. That’s why I’m here, a loyal servant of my master—to see to it that a war never takes place.”
Picard was glad to hear that at least one delegate was approaching the matter with a cool head. He said so.
“One delegate, by himself, can do very little,” Thul pointed out. He eyed the captain. “However, judging by what I heard from you this morning, it sounds as if your Federation and my Empire seek the same sort of outcome to these talks.”
“It does at that,” Picard agreed. By then, he could see where the Thallonian was going with his comments. “You’re suggesting that we join forces, I take it?”
“I am,” Thul confirmed, his dark eyes blazing resolutely. “Let us work in concert, Captain. Then perhaps we can put an end to this war of words before it becomes a war in truth.”
“We could pool our knowledge,” Picard said.
“And back each other up during the talks,” said the governor. He smiled. “Certainly, we have nothing to lose.”
The captain hesitated a moment before replying. He didn’t know very much about the Thallonians. Hardly anyone in the Federation did.
However, Thul seemed genuine in his desire to end the enmity between the Melacron and the Cordracites. Nor had it escaped Picard’s notice that the governor was one of the very few delegates not crying out for blood in the Grand Council Chamber.
The one thing the captain knew for certain was that the Thallonian Empire was a powerful entity. Perhaps if he and Thul worked together here and now, their unity would not only improve the present situation but influence future negotiations with the governor’s people.
“You make a compelling case,” said Picard. He smiled as well. “From now on, we’ll work together as closely as possible.”
Thul clapped him on the shoulder. “I am pleased,” he told the captain. “I am pleased indeed.”
Crusher leaned back in his seat and surveyed the faces of the others who had joined him in the lounge.
Phigus Simenon, the ship’s lizardlike chief engineer. Pug Joseph, the baby-faced head of security, who was straddling a chair in front of the room’s computer workstation. Carter Greyhorse, the big, broadshouldered Native American who served as chief medical officer. Vigo, the strapping blue Pandrilite in charge of the Stargazer’s weapons systems.
And, of course, Ensign Tuvok, who was standing off to the side with his arms folded across his chest.
“Well, Ensign Tuvok,” said Simenon, eyeing the Vulcan with slitted, blood-red eyes as he switched his scaly tail from one side to the other, “you’re the expert on the Kellasian sector. Why don’t you tell us who this mysterious third party is already, so we can all go have a nice snack and put our feet up?”
Caught off balance, the ensign looked quizzically at the Gnalish. “I beg your pardon?” he said.
The engineer stopped and returned Tuvok’s scrutiny. “We backtracked all the way to Starbase Three to pick you up, didn’t we? I thought that you might know something.”
Tuvok frowned ever so slightly. “I know quite a bit. However, it will require considerable investigation to determine if there is a third party—and if so, to uncover his identity.”
“Investigation,” Simenon hissed, his eyes gleaming with humor. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”
“Pay no attention to him,” Greyhorse told the Vulcan.
“The doctor’s right,” said Joseph. He had turned around to face his workstation and was tapping away. “Our friend Simenon doesn’t always work and play well with others.”
“Doesn’t ever,” Greyhorse amended.
Crusher knew that the Gnalish could be irascible in the extreme. The human had long since given up trying to beat him in a game of one-upmanship, since he never seemed to get anywhere.
Simenon smiled to himself. “My apologies, Mr. Tuvok. I didn’t know your feelings were hurt so easily.”
The ensign’s brow creased. “I do not have feelings,” he shot back. “I am a Vulcan. And if it is your intention to bait me, I would advise you to spend your time in more gainful pursuits…for instance, adjusting the magnetic switching controls in the plasma distribution manifold.”
The Gnalish’s head snapped around. “What are you talking about? There’s nothing wrong with the magnetic switching controls.”
The Vulcan lifted an eyebrow. “That is correct. It was merely…an example,” he said archly.
It took Simenon a moment to realize that the tables had been turned on him, but when he did he hissed with delight. After all, he liked nothing better than when someone matched him blow for blow.
“Thataway,” he told Tuvok with a surprisingly paternal tone in his voice. “Don’t take guff from anyone—even me.”
Crusher nodded approvingly. It seemed Tuvok was going to be able to hold his own on the Stargazer—even against the likes of the Gnalish.
“Now,” he said, as the ranking officer in the room, “let’s put the sharp part of our wits to the problem instead of each other.”
“Here’s a start,” Joseph told them. He swiveled around in his chair again. “I’ve taken the liberty of pulling up all pertinent information on terrorist incidents in the sector.”
“You mean the latest wave?” asked Greyhorse, his expression a characteristically grim one.
“No,” said the security chief. “All of them, including the ones attributed to the established terrorist groups.”
“The Quack-Socks and the Melly-Craw,” snorted Simenon.
The Vulcan opened his mouth to correct the Gnalish’s deliberate mispronunciations, but Crusher caught his eye and shook his head. Realizing he was being baited again, Tuvok remained silent.
“Gather ’round,” Joseph advised his colleagues. “Don’t be shy.”
They all complied. Even Simenon.
“Now, as I understand it,” the security chief went on with his colleagues looking over his shoulders, “the First Minister has two reasons for suspecting the intervention of a third party. One is a change in the methods used by the terrorists. The other is a change in the equipment they used…in other words, the weapons.”
Crusher nodded. “That’s right.”
“Okay,” said Joseph, tapping his monitor screen with a forefinger. “This is a catalogue of the terrorist incidents that took place between a year and six months ago.”
One by one, scenes of carnage filled the screen, lingered for a moment, then faded…only to be replaced by others. Crusher shook his head as he looked at a bombed-out building in one scene, the desecration of a graveyard in another, the remnants of some ancient statuary in a third.
What a heartbreaking mess, he reflected. He couldn’t understand how people could be so bent on destruction.
“All right,” Joseph told them. “Now let’s take a look at the incidents that took place in the last couple of weeks.”
Again, scenes of carnage filled the screen. As Crusher watched, a series of dead Cordracites were pulled from a ragged hole in the ground. A moment later, a bound Melacron was executed with a directed-energy weapon. More Cordracite corpses, scattered across a playground. More Melacron corpses, floating on an expanse of blue-green water.
