Star Trek - Double Helix, page 92
“He was our prefect,” insisted the official. “That’s the highest office in the land.”
“I know who he was,” said Torres, glaring at him.
Her distress and reddened eyes had some effect on the officials, who evidently knew who she was, too.
“You’re not a suspect,” the official said with sympathy. “But until we find out what happened here, we have to hold the Vulcan and your captain.”
Chakotay briefly considered making a run for it and ordering Seska to beam him back to the Spartacus, but they needed cooperation, not more strife. As unibloods, he and Tuvok were obviously at a disadvantage.
“I’ll go with you,” he told the officials, “as long as you realize that these arrests could further the spread of the plague.”
The officials scratched their chins and looked at one another with indecision. Chakotay had the impression that their jobs were mostly ceremonial on the normally peaceful planet.
“Listen to him,” pleaded Dr. Gammet. “Captain Chakotay’s ship and the medical teams he brought with him are the only things standing between us and disaster.”
“But he ordered them to fire their phasers!” shouted an onlooker. “I saw him!”
The stout official, who was the elder of the two, took a deep breath and came to a decision. “Dr. Gammet, if you will vouch for the captain, we’ll allow him to remain on his own cognizance until the hearing. But we have to hold the Vulcan, because he admits to killing the shopkeeper.”
“I’ll vouch for all of them,” said Gammet. “They only want to help us.”
“Where is Tuvok being held?” asked Chakotay.
“In the Ministry of Public Policy,” answered the official. “You can visit him in the morning.”
Dr. Gammet strode up to the officials and said, “Right now, we’ve got to go to Genetic Enhancement—Klain’s company—and search it.”
“We can’t get a search warrant until morning,” said the stout official obstinately.
Torres snarled with anger. “A few days from now, when you’re lying in bed—dying a miserable death—I hope you’ll remember these delays you caused us. Better yet, I hope you come to us to save your life—or the lives of your children—and we say, ‘Sorry, can’t do anything until the morning.’”
The official’s dark complexion paled several shades. He finally motioned to the hovercraft and growled, “Get in.”
They could see the fire burning in the night sky from blocks away, the flames rising above the silhouette of the city like rocket thrusters. Helenites were running to and fro, pointing helplessly at the conflagration, and their driver stopped the hovercraft and stared in amazement. The air smelled like burning tar, and sparks floated in the darkness like erratic meteorites.
“That can’t be!” he exclaimed. “The automatic sprinklers and transporters…the flame retarders…we haven’t had a fire in Astar in a hundred years!”
He tapped a button on the instrument panel of the hovercraft and shouted over the commotion, “This is Chief Mufanno calling headquarters. There’s a fire in section twelve, near the corner of Cosmos and Unity—”
“In the Genetic Enhancement building,” said Dr. Gammet, drawing the obvious conclusion.
“Yes,” agreed the official, staring at his passengers and realizing that they might have been telling him the truth about Prefect Klain. “Call out the Coastal Watchers and rush them to—”
“I wouldn’t do that,” cautioned Dr. Gammet. “Don’t get anywhere near that building, unless you’re wearing an environmental suit. You don’t know what might be in there. The safest recourse is to keep people away, and let it burn to the ground.”
The official stared in shock at the doctor and licked his blue lips worriedly. “Belay that order. Let’s cordon off the block and keep people away. Just let it burn.”
“Let it burn?” asked an amazed voice on the comm channel.
“That’s right. Don’t let anyone get near it, unless they’re wearing an environmental suit. There are, uh…biohazards.”
Chakotay sighed wearily and hopped out of the hovercraft. “I don’t think we’re going to find any information in that building. B’Elanna, contact the ship and head back as soon as you can. I’m sure Seska could use some relief on the bridge.” He started walking away.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Back to the Velvet Cluster. There’s a man I’ve got to see. I have a feeling our time is running out.”
Gul Demadak breathed a tremendous sigh of relief as he read the coded message on the hidden screen in his library. At last, he was free to do what had to be done. He had also survived the most dangerous partnership he had ever undertaken. If this message hadn’t come, he was probably only days, perhaps hours, away from from losing his post as military commander of the DMZ. He would make the Detapa Council and Central Command very happy with his next order.
“Experiment cut short,” read the message. “Move in and clear out Maquis. Await my order for final resolution.”
Demadak knew what that final resolution was—the end of the thorn in his side known as Helena. Now his place in history and the next great reign of the Cardassian Union was assured.
He quickly sent another message: “Await my arrival, and begin Phase Two. Prepare for Phase Three.”
All during the night, Thomas Riker hurtled through the darkness, clinging to a chunk of wood and shivering in his wet clothes. Inside the pipe, he didn’t know if it was night or day, sea or land, hell or heaven—whether he was ill or merely exhausted and half-crazed. All he knew was that the instincts for survival and revenge were stronger than the temptation to let go and end it, although that thought was never far from his mind.
Did you survive all those years, put up with all the ridicule and unfairness, give up everything you worked for, and come all the way to Helena…just to die?
No! Riker answered the voice within him. I have to make my life—and my death—mean something. I’m alive for a reason, and there’s something I have to do.
Riker wasn’t sure he was destined for success in Starfleet anymore, as he had once been convinced. He thought about the love of his life, Deanna Troi, and how he should never have let her get away. He had given her up for what? A career! What was a career but a bunch of disconnected, often incomprehensible events from which a person tried desperately to make some sense? The only thing in his life that had ever made any sense was Deanna, and he had willfully given her up.
His fingers and legs were painfully cramped as he clung to his board, and he had lost his meager supply of food in the rushing water. But none of that seemed as important as the realization he had just reached. When he got out of this, he would redeem himself. He would no longer let life drag him along like this current—he would bend it to his will.
To his surprise, Riker took comfort from a fact which he had resented bitterly for two years. I’m not alone. There is another William T. Riker on the Enterprise. He would let that other Riker scale the heights and have the incredible career that he had always considered to be his due. Tom Riker would be the altruistic and unselfish one—the one who thought and acted for other people.
He had taken the first step by giving up his high-profile bridge position to become a medical courier, then he had gone one step further by shipping out with the Maquis. He wondered what he would do next to further his development as a person.
Without warning, the artificial river dropped away beneath him, and Riker plunged headfirst into darkness. Involuntarily, he yelled and flailed his arms, losing his tiny life raft. At the last second, he ducked his head, put his arms out, and dove into a cold, dark pool of water. He protected his head, certain he would smash into a shallow bottom, but he came out of his unexpected dive in water that was plenty deep enough to swim in. Riker stroked and kicked with all his might, and he broke the surface, sputtering for breath.
Treading water, he looked up and saw a million stars, sparkling like the brightest lights of San Francisco or Anchorage. “Yes,” he breathed gratefully, slapping his hand on top of the water. As his eyes adjusted to the night sky and its tiny but vibrant bits of light, he could see that he was swimming in a small reservoir, with a dam looming on one side and a lower embankment on the other.
I made it! Where he was hardly made any difference, as long as it wasn’t that damn island.
Knowing he was too weak to tread water for very long, Riker swam toward the low side of the reservoir. He finally found a ladder and dragged himself out of the chilly water. Collapsing on the concrete embankment, he lay there for several minutes, letting the water drip off his shivering body. He was only half-alive, but he was alive.
Riker staggered to his feet and looked around, unable to make out much in the darkness. If anyone was manning the reservoir, he couldn’t see them, and no one seemed interested in him. In the distance was a wavering light—it looked like no more than a campfire, but that was enough to give him a new destination. Now he wished he hadn’t lost his food.
Picking his way carefully through the dark, Riker walked away from the reservoir and found himself on a dirt path. The closer he got to the wavering light in the distance, the more it actually looked like a campfire, and hope spurred him to walk faster. Soon he heard voices, talking rather loudly, as if they expected no one to be nearby. He couldn’t tell if it was friend or foe, but he doubted if his tormentors from the island would amuse themselves with anything as low-tech as a campfire. He was hoping these were Helenites—either rural workers or people who had fled the cities.
As he staggered through the brush, he could see their seated silhouettes huddled around the campfire. With their backs to him, he had no idea who they were, but from their voices, he assumed they were mostly males. Riker figured he had better not charge into their midst without announcing himself, so when got close enough he cleared his throat loudly.
“I’m Lieutenant Riker,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse and hollow in his own ears.
The men jumped up as if a bomb had gone off, and he could see them grabbing what looked like weapons. In the dim firelight, he still couldn’t see their faces, but he wanted to appear harmless. So he held up his hands and said, “I’m with the Maquis. I got separated from my—”
One of the men charged toward him, rifle leveled at his chest. In seconds, he got close enough for Riker to make out his bony face, black hair, and gray uniform.
Cardassians! Riker thought momentarily about trying to escape, but how far could he run in his condition? In fact, he felt so weak that he didn’t think he could stand on his feet for much longer. But he kept his hands raised high and a smile glued to his bearded face.
Unfortunately, Cardassians were not known for responding well to human charm. This one raised his phaser rifle and fired a searing beam that hit Riker in the chest. That was the last thing he remembered before he pitched forward into the dirt.
Chapter Fifteen
“I TOLD YOU, CAPTAIN CHAKOTAY, I won’t give you any information until you take me away from Helena. That is my firm price.”
The speaker, an Andorian named Bokor, sat stone-faced at his table in the Velvet Cluster dining room. Chakotay sat across from him, his hands folded before him and his face just as implacable as the blue-skinned alien’s. The Ferengi, Shep, sat between them, and he was the only one who looked animated, except for the servers who bustled around them importantly.
“Don’t agree to anything,” Shep cautioned Chakotay. “Let me negotiate for both of us.”
The Andorian laughed. “What have you got to bargain with, Ferengi? You don’t know anything, and you don’t have anything. All your goods are floating in orbit around the planet.”
“I have my mind,” answered Shep, tapping his large frontal lobes. “And a strong desire to get out of here myself. Besides, I was right about Prefect Klain, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, you were,” agreed Chakotay, his voice barely audible over the clink of glasses and ricochet of silverware. “That’s why I came back here—to see what else I could find out.”
Bokor arched an eyebrow and waited until an older Catullan couple shuffled past. “Terrible thing about the prefect. Who ever thought he could be involved with this tragic disease? Everyone is talking about it. As I told you, Captain, I have a very valuable piece of information, but I won’t part with it for free.”
“Bokor doesn’t know anything,” scoffed Shep. “So he talked to a few Cardassians who are also stranded here—big deal. Those bone-heads don’t know any more than the rest of us! Captain Chakotay is the only one with a starship—he’s the only one in a strong bargaining position.”
The captain shrugged. “Actually I have three ships under my command, all of them in orbit: the Spartacus, the Singha, and a warp-drive shuttlecraft.”
Now the Andorian leaned forward with avid interest. “A shuttlecraft, you say? Now that is something worth negotiating for, especially on Helena. How much gold-pressed latinum do you want? Name your price.”
Chakotay smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Latinum doesn’t do me a bit of good—no place to spend it. Your information isn’t all that valuable either, because any fool could guess at it. The Cardassians must be planning to come back here with more ships—maybe a whole fleet. And when they do, we’ll run for it, and you’ll still be here. If the plague doesn’t get you, they will.”
The Andorian scowled. “Make your point, Captain. What do you want?”
“Don’t hurry him,” said the Ferengi, smiling. “A good negotiation must be savored, like good wine.”
Chakotay leaned forward and whispered, “I need four things. It would be good to know exactly when Cardassian ships are returning, and in what strength. I also need to know what happened to my two missing crewmen. Just because you didn’t see them doesn’t mean the Cardassians don’t have them. We need to ask them point-blank if they know anything about Lieutenant Riker and Ensign Shelzane.”
“What else?” grumbled the Andorian, not enjoying this tough negotiation as much as the Ferengi.
Chakotay’s tattoo grew three-dimensional in the furrows of a deep frown. “Tuvok, the Vulcan on my crew, has been arrested for killing a man who was working with the people who brought this plague to Helena. If there is any sort of influence you could bring to bear on the officials, it would be appreciated.”
Bokor snorted, and his antennae twitched. “Anything else, while we’re at it?”
“Yes. Whoever takes that shuttlecraft has got to return it and the medical team to the Federation.”
The Andorian groaned and slumped back in his chair, while the Ferengi nodded with satisfaction. “What will you say to that, Bokor?”
“I’ll say that this human wants an awful lot for his shuttlecraft.”
“That’s all I want from you,” said Chakotay. “From you, Shep, I want someone to gather information about Klain’s company, Genetic Enhancement. He’s still got confederates here on Helena, and we’ve got to run them down.”
“I’m going on the shuttlecraft, too?” asked Shep excitedly.
“Yes, because I reward those who help me.” Chakotay rose to his feet and looked at the Andorian, sensing other diners glancing at him. “Bokor, you still have your sea-glider, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll meet you at the bay in an hour, and we can take a little flight to look for my missing crew.”
The Andorian scowled. “It will take us a day or two to get there.”
“I have a shortcut,” promised the captain.
“But I haven’t agreed to any of this yet!”
Chakotay smiled. “You haven’t said no, so I’m taking that as a yes. You might want to load up some supplies to make it look good. See you in an hour.”
The Maquis captain strode away from the table, with many of the members of the Velvet Cluster watching him go. Shep nodded his head in admiration. “For a hu-man, he’s an awfully good negotiator. Wouldn’t you say so, Bokor?”
“A month ago, we would have laughed him out of the cluster.” The tall Andorian rose to his feet. “Now I had better put some supplies on my glider.”
Tuvok sat in a cell with a force-field grid protecting the open door. There were three other cells linked with his, all of them opening onto a central corridor, but the other cells were empty. His jailers had left him reading material, food, and water, but he ignored these niceties to sit in silence and contemplate the actions that had landed him in this predicament.
He had killed a man. The killing had clearly been in self-defense, but that knowledge didn’t assuage his conscience at all. For a Vulcan to take a life was a serious matter, a cause to doubt one’s training and commitment to logic. For Tuvok, it was a cause to wonder what he was doing on the Maquis crew—a group of people who lived a life so dangerous that it might be called suicidal.
