[Star Trek TNG] - Double Helix Omnibus

  The barkeeper looked up with an angry expression on his face. “There were three on the counter,” he snarled.

  “Three to put me in touch with Nedrach,” the human said, conscious of maintaining the hardnosed reputation he had established minutes earlier. “You didn’t do that. You only told me how to find his rider.”

  The alien seemed about to object. Crusher smiled up at him. “Two slips of latinum—and keeping your pretty face from being rearranged. I’d call that good for a few moments’ work.” He bowed almost insultingly. “Thank you for your time. Nice place you run here.”

  Then, without another word, the commander opened the door and stepped back into the main gaming room. With a last glance at the sullen bartender, Ensign Tuvok followed.

  “So far, so good,” the human muttered.

  The Vulcan didn’t comment.

  Some of the customers shot them bold, appraising glances as they crossed the floor. But Crusher met each of the looks with equal boldness. Then he and Tuvok opened the front door and walked outside.

  “Progress,” the commander said triumphantly as they strode away from The Den. “Now we…”

  He noticed that the Vulcan was giving him a look that could only be classified as a glare.

  “What?” asked Crusher.

  Tuvok didn’t answer.

  “Come on,” said the commander, “you’re obviously upset about something. What is it?”

  “I am not upset,” came the reply. “I am a Vulcan.”

  Crusher rolled his eyes. “All right, then. Let’s just say you seem to disapprove of something.”

  Tuvok frowned at him. “I do disapprove.”

  “Well, why?”

  “You took a clearly unnecessary risk with the bartender,” the ensign explained with a hint of annoyance in his voice. “Your implied threat and your extravagant display of latinum accomplished nothing except to draw unwanted and perhaps dangerous attention to us.”

  The commander was stung by Tuvok’s disapproval. “That’s not true at all,” he said. “It got us exactly what we wanted—information on how to get hold of Bin Nedrach.”

  “Perhaps,” the Vulcan responded. “However, we could have obtained the same information in a far less public and confrontational fashion. Surely there were others here who know of Nedrach and his rider. We could have approached them quietly. Subtly.”

  Crusher stifled an impulse to put a comradely arm around Tuvok’s stiff shoulders. “That’s a logical approach, all right,” he admitted. “Damned logical. Just one problem—hardened criminals and the dregs of society seldom appreciate that kind of logic.”

  The Vulcan grunted scornfully.

  “All they respect is force and power,” the commander explained. “Back there, I let everyone know that I had both. I was willing to rough up the barkeep if I needed to, and I had the latinum in my sleeve to give the impression that I had connections.”

  Tuvok still didn’t look convinced.

  “People form impressions very quickly,’’ said Crusher. “When you spoke to him politely, the bartender laughed at you. If we’d let him get away with that, don’t you think every two-bit thug in the place would have treated us the same way?”

  The Vulcan turned away.

  “Nobody would have been willing to talk to us,” the commander continued. “We would still have gotten noticed, but for an entirely different reason. Your way, we would have been objects of ridicule, pariahs. My way, they couldn’t help thinking we were just like them.” He paused. “Do you see what I’m talking about?”

  Tuvok regarded him again, but refrained from speaking. Crusher’s explanation had satisfied him enough, apparently, for him not to pursue the matter any further.

  But the frown remained.

  Chapter Nine

  TRICIA CADWALLADER EYED the heaping plate of sturrd across the rec room table from her and tried not to grimace.

  Vigo, who had brought the sturrd to the table, looked at her face and winced in sympathy. “Sorry, Cadwallader,” he said in his deep, rich voice. “I forgot the effect that sturrd has on you.”

  The ensign dismissed the need for an apology with a wave of her hand. “It’s what you eat, Lieutenant. I mean, you don’t complain about watching me eat barbecued shrimp.”

  The weapons officer shrugged. “That’s because I don’t mind the sight of barbecued shrimp.”

  Cadwallader smiled at him. “But even if you did, you wouldn’t say anything because it wouldn’t be polite. That’s why I’m not going to say anything about your sturrd…even if it does look like beach sand and ground glass with maple syrup thrown over it.”

  Vigo studied her for a moment. Then he got to his feet and picked up his plate. “I’m going to get something else,” he told her.

  “No!” said the ensign, drawing stares from her colleagues at other tables. “Don’t you dare get rid of that. I want you to sit here and enjoy it.” Suddenly, she remembered the difference in their ranks and blushed. “I mean…enjoy it, sir.”

  The Pandrilite frowned as he considered his course of action. It must have seemed to him that he would trouble her no matter what he did.

  “Please?” Cadwallader added.

  With a sigh, Vigo put his plate of sturrd back on the table and sat down again. “If you insist,” he told her.

  “I do,” the ensign confirmed.

  For a while, the two of them sat and ate in silence, and Cadwallader managed not to listen too hard to the crunching sounds in her companion’s mouth. Then Vigo spoke up again.

  “Care for a game of sharash’di later?” he asked.

  The ensign looked at him askance. “You know your problem, Lieutenant? You’ve beaten everyone on the ship so many times that no one wants to play with you—including me.”

  Vigo tapped his fork on a particularly hard piece of sturrd. “Commander Crusher plays with me every chance he gets.”

  “If I may say so,” Cadwallader replied, “Commander Crusher sometimes finds it difficult to let go of something once he’s sunk his teeth into it—which, I suppose, is one of the qualities that makes him a good officer.”

  The Pandrilite gave it some thought. “He does tend to hold onto a single sharash strategy too long, now that you mention it.”

  The ensign smiled. “There you go.”

  Vigo shook his head. “I wish I was out there with him.”

  Cadwallader could empathize. “Me, too,” she said. “Sitting up here in orbit is the worst part of being in the fleet.”

  Actually, the worst part was watching the Pandrilite eat his lunch. However, she refrained from returning to that topic.

  “It’s not just that,” Vigo told her. “It’s that they’re working undercover in a place they don’t know very well. I’d feel a lot better if the captain had sent me to watch over them.”

  The ensign nodded. “We all would. However, big fellows like you tend to attract attention. Besides, Tuvok’s a Vulcan. From what I’ve been given to understand, those people can take care of themselves.”

  The weapons officer smiled without much enthusiasm. “You’re talking about that neck pinch they use?”

  “That,” said Cadwallader, “and other things. I’m just saying that Tuvok will be able to provide all the muscle they need. And if it comes to that, Commander Crusher’s no slouch either.”

  Vigo grunted. “I suppose you’re right.” He paused. “So there’s no chance at all that you’ll play a game? Not even one?”

  The ensign shook her head. “I wouldn’t be much competition, sir. I figure I’m beaten before I start. Look, why don’t you find someone you haven’t played yet? Someone who doesn’t know how badly they’re going to lose?”

  The Pandrilite nodded his big, blue head. “Maybe you’re right.”

  Just then, someone came to stand by their table. Looking up, Cadwallader saw that it was Gerda Asmund with a tray of food in her hands.

  “Do you mind if I join you?” asked the tall, blond navigator.

&
nbsp; “Not at all,” said Vigo, his eyes narrowing craftily.

  “Have a seat,” the ensign told her.

  Gerda put her tray down on the table and pulled out a chair. Then she glanced at her companions. “So,” she asked with her usual blunt efficiency, “what are we talking about?”

  The Pandrilite considered his words for a moment. Then he said, “Tell me, Lieutenant…have you ever played sharash’di?”

  Picard sat back in his ready room chair and sipped appreciatively at his hot, steaming drink.

  “What is the name of this delightful beverage?” Thul asked from the other side of the captain’s desk.

  “Earl Grey tea,” Picard replied. “It is named after the man who crafted this particular recipe.”

  “Wonderful!” the Thallonian remarked. “When these talks are concluded, I must negotiate with you to bring a supply back to my Emperor. I am certain he would enjoy it as much as I do.”

  The captain smiled at his ally’s enthusiasm. “Governor,” he said, “if you and I can manage to conclude these negotiations without any blood being spilled, I will replicate and send you more tea than your entire Empire can consume in a year.”

  Gerrid Thul chuckled at that. Then he sat his cup down in his lap and regarded Picard with a sly smile.

  “Despite the drama in which you and I find ourselves embroiled,” he said, “I must say getting to know you has been an unexpectedly pleasant turn of events. We work well together, I think.”

  The captain returned the smile. The delicate, tart aroma of the bergamot in the tea teased his nostrils.

  “I agree, Governor. Perhaps our teamwork on this matter will translate into something more momentous…say, a diplomatic relationship between your Empire and my Federation.”

  “Perhaps,” Thul replied pessimistically, “but I would not place a very large wager on the possibility. My Empire is—shall we say—a good deal more insular than I am.”

  “That is a pity,” Picard told him. “Still, I am pleased by the way the talks are going now. Did you see the G’aha of Finance and the First Elected of Kiwanari Province actually laughing together?”

  It was the first real sign of hope that the captain had received since his arrival on Debennius II. It is difficult, he mused, to sit down and share a laugh with your enemy and fire upon him the next day.

  “The improvement is remarkable,” the governor agreed. “And it’s your efforts that have made it so.”

  “Our efforts,” Picard amended. “There are those in the congress who couldn’t care less about some distant Federation. But the Thallonian Empire…that appears to be a different story.”

  Thul shrugged. “And in some cases, the reverse is true. Perhaps we should say we have both contributed and leave it at that.”

  The captain nodded. “I would agree to that.”

  For a moment, the two of them sipped their tea in silence. Then the governor spoke up again. “You have a fine ship here, Picard. I wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more of it.”

  The captain sighed. “And I wouldn’t mind showing it off. Unfortunately, Starfleet regulations prevent me from doing that.”

  Thul’s brow furrowed. “Regulations…?” Then understanding dawned. “I see. It is a security matter.”

  Picard nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  The Thallonian dismissed the apology with a flip of his hand. “It’s probably a wise policy, now that you mention it. You must have all sorts of visitors on your vessel from time to time. You can’t be expected to discern the honest from the dishonest.”

  “Then you take no offense?” the captain asked.

  “None at all,” his guest assured him. He reached into a vest pocket and removed a flat, latinum-plated chronometer. “But if there’s no guided tour today,” he said, consulting the device, “we should probably return to the planet’s surface. It’s impossible to tell how many brushfires may have begun in our absence.”

  “Done,” Picard responded.

  Taking a last sip from his tea cup, he got up and retrieved Thul’s as well. Then he brought them both to the replicator.

  “This way,” he told the governor, indicating the exit.

  “After you,” Thul told him.

  Together, the captain and his guest left his ready room and walked back to the Stargazer’s transporter facility. En route, Picard wondered how Crusher and Tuvok were doing.

  He hoped they were all right—and that they were making some kind of progress in their quest for the truth.

  Ulassi’s heart pounded hard in her chitin-shelled chest.

  The daughter of a high-ranking government official, she had been indulged and cosseted and sheltered all of her young life. However, she had never done anything even vaguely significant or lasting. Though others envied her and she had taken a bit of pleasure in that, her station in life had always felt like a burden to her.

  Now, at last, Ulassi was acting on her own. She was doing something she believed in, instead of something she was expected to do. It was a remarkably heady sensation.

  She opened her mouth as she climbed, panting to release some of the body heat she had built up. Her body, slim and attractive but unused to such exertion, would ache the next day. She was sure of it.

  But that was all right. In fact, the prospect was thrilling to her in a way. Until that moment, she had only used her physical form for her own selfish pleasure. The stiffness she would feel tomorrow would be a welcome reminder of the worthy work she had performed today.

  Finally, muscles quivering from the strain, Ulassi reached a plateau. She sat there for a moment, trying to catch her breath, and surveyed the terrain below. The perspective was impressive to say the least, but Ulassi was in no mood to appreciate the natural beauty of the place.

  Mountains, forests, the pure expanse of water that stretched out beyond them…what good was any of it when her people were enslaved? How could she find joy in the view when she knew the price her father and others had to pay for it?

  Once, Cordra III had been independent, able to sustain its people with the bounty of its fields and its forests. Now, the once-proud Cordracites needed trade, negotiation, commerce. And with whom?

  With Melacron V. The very thought was revolting to her.

  Some Cordracites, Ulassi’s well-born father among them, were still trying to bring about peace with the Melacron. They were trying to smooth over their considerable differences. But the notion made Ulassi’s stomach roil like a giant grubworm.

  Peace, she thought, with that ugly, violent, inferior race? How could anyone in their right mind even consider such a thing?

  Spurred by the thought, Ulassi resumed her climb down the treacherous rock face. Halfway to her destination, her feet slipped and she gasped in fear. Stones tumbled beneath her, striking off the cliff walls as they fell and finally splashing in the water below.

  She had almost been killed, she realized. She had almost lost her life in the pursuit of something noble. By the gods, she thought, this was exciting! This was living!

  Trembling with fervor, trepidation, and joy, Ulassi finally made her way to the rocky outcropping she had been aiming for all along. Only then did she stop to rest.

  For a long moment, she gazed into the water just below her. She studied her gray, antennaed reflection, found renewed faith in the determination that was plain on her own golden-eyed face.

  Armed with it, fortified with it, Ulassi closed her eyes for a long moment. Then slowly, almost reverently, she brought forth the vial of death that she had safely packed in her waist pouch.

  Strange, she thought, holding it in the sunlight. It was so small a thing—just a few milliliters of liquid—and yet it would eventually bring about the deaths of thousands…

  And in time, a great and terrible war.

  Squatting, Ulassi opened the vial and poured its contents into the water. Only a few drops per thousand liters of water were necessary to achieve the desired goal. There was something sacred in the potency of the poison, she t
hought dreamily. Something wonderful and outrageous, like the judgment of a wronged, angry god.

  For now, sadly, it was her own people, the Cordracites, who would have to perish. She was sorry about that, but there was little she could do about it. Sacrifices were needed if she was to bring about the changes that would save her planet as a whole.

  And soon enough, Ulassi thought…soon enough it would be the disgusting, single-nostriled Melacron who would be dying. Then Cordra III would disentangle itself from the grip of Melacron V and stand, proud and whole and independent once more.

  As the thick black poison dissolved into the city’s water supply, she said a prayer…for herself, for her father, for all those whose deaths would bring about her world’s liberation. She prayed that they would die quickly and without pain.

  “Long live Cordra III!” Ulassi whispered aloud, tears filling her eyes at the righteousness of her cause.

  Then, with a start, she realized what she had become. She was a hero now, wasn’t she? A hero like Risaab of Golluk or the Sisters Noraddis or the Ten Warriors of Hitna’he. Someday schoolchildren would sing songs about her and old people would write her name in their graves.

  The thought made Ulassi smile as she climbed back up the face of the cliff and started back to her father’s domicile.

  Chapter Ten

  “WELL,” SAID COMMANDER CRUSHER, mainly to break the uncomfortable silence into which he and Tuvok seemed to have fallen, “there she is, in all her bacchanalian glory.”

  “The House of Comfort,” the Vulcan observed warily.

  “The House of Comfort,” the commander confirmed.

  “It does not,” said Tuvok, “look very comfortable.”

  For the briefest of seconds, Crusher wondered if the ensign had made a joke. Then he dismissed the notion. As usual, it seemed, Tuvok was simply being literal.

  Viewed from outside, The House of Comfort looked every bit as dark, dilapidated and unappealing as The Den had looked—maybe even more so, though he wouldn’t have thought that possible. The commander hoped that the interior would prove more attractive.