[Star Trek TNG] - Double Helix Omnibus

  “You guys are getting the process down fast with these new kids.”

  “That’s what we do. The fight’s still going on, but the destroyers seem to have it locked up. The Romulan fighters are trickling away one by one. I think they’ll leave us alone.”

  “Good,” Stiles muttered. “I need to be left alone.” As Travis planted both feet and leaned forward, Stiles quickly amended, “No, no, I don’t mean you.”

  The door chimed and Greg Blake poked in when the panel opened. “Eric, okay if we shut down the warp injection system so we can flush the lines?”

  “How many of the Romulan fighters are still in the vicinity?”

  “Only about four now.”

  “‘About’ four?”

  “Guess I better check.”

  “Guess you better. But listen, hail Captain Sattler and make sure we’re not pressuring her by staying in the vicinity. If she needs us to bear off, we’ll move out before we shut anything down. Be nice about it.”

  “Will do. Sorry to interrupt.”

  The door panel slid shut again.

  “You never try to push, do you?” Travis observed. “That’s why all the captains appreciate you so much.”

  “It’s just that I’m sweet and polite and I know my place.”

  “Know your place…?”

  “Sure, think about it. CST’s are usually commanded by the guys who couldn’t qualify to run the glory machines, so they get out among the star-shippers and try throwing their weight around. They’re impolite. They take it out on the captains, who they think surpassed them. I’m just not like that. I try to be accommodating and patient and helpful without being ub—ob—what’s that word you used last week?”

  “Obsequious?”

  “That’s it. I’m satisfied with what I’m doing. Remember when we got assigned the CST duty? The team was depressed and down because they thought we’d get something fancier, but they all adjusted, and it’s turned out to be great work.”

  “They adjusted because you packed ’em off to special training for combat-ready missions. You made sure we all had skills in hands-on operations management, not just Academy certificates in theories and simulators. Then you juggled us around until you found our strengths. You even pushed Brad and Bill back out to the private sector.”

  “I had to push them. We had a good relationship going among all of us, and nobody wanted to be the first to leave. They were ready to go. Starfleet couldn’t make as much use of them as free enterprise could. Not everybody flourishes in uniform. CST duty didn’t make good use of their natural abilities. For others, this is the best they’ll do, or this is where they’re most useful. Better this than have them go out and try to be hotshots and wash out. Maybe cost some lives.”

  Travis grinned coquettishly. “What about me?”

  “You? You’re a bum. I just keep you here as my first officer out of charity. And me…this is perfect for me.”

  “Eric?” One of the evil twins knocked on the door, not bothering with the chime. “You asleep?”

  “No, come on in.”

  One of the Bolts appeared and stuck his tousled blond head around the doorframe. “Permission to put a team outside and patch the PGV meter?”

  “As long as Jeremy says it’s safe to go out.”

  “Right. And do either of you know where the cylinder punch went? As my mother used to say, ‘You had it last.’”

  Travis spoke up before Stiles could bother saying he didn’t know. “It’s in the aft locker in the tool alley, Zack, on the inboard side, underneath the conduction paper.”

  “Thanks. Sorry to interrupt.”

  When they were alone again, Stiles regarded Travis with quizzical respect. “How do you tell those two apart so fast? Fifteen years, and it still takes me half a conversation.”

  “Just doing what any good exo does. So…what do you think of Hashley?”

  “I think he’s into something a lot more complicated than he believes,” Stiles said. “I checked the Bureau of Shipping records just before you came in. Ansue Cabela Hashley, human, Federation citizenship, most of the right licenses, skirts the law now and then but not much, originally from Rigel system, nothing much worth putting on record. He’s been running the same patch of space back and forth for years like a bug, shuttling minor contraband into Romulan space. The Romulans have pretty much encouraged him by not enforcing their own laws in his case. He probably brings in things they can’t get, and they like it. He hasn’t been hurting anybody and more people like him than not, so he’s been considered small potatoes.”

  “Till now.”

  Stiles nodded. “He’s a cosmic worker-insect. Now he’s stepped in goo and he’s stuck. Probably he doesn’t even realize that the reason he’s been safe is that things haven’t been too tense with the Romulans over the past twenty years. Now that they’re tensing up, well, he has been breaking Romulan law right along. I’m guessing the Federation doesn’t have good cause to protest. Then he stumbled on this poison thing and suddenly the small potato is a hot potato.”

  “What do you think the connection is between the blood thing and Hashley?”

  “No idea.”

  “It’s got to be more than he thinks,” Travis surmised. “More than just his ‘knowing’ about the poisoning, or whatever it is. Nobody would try to kidnap him just because he knew about it.”

  “He said it could be an engineered virus. Some kind of assassination plot. If a hundred or so imperial relatives have died, I can’t believe Starfleet’s not working on it already. We’re a day late and a dollar short to make it our problem.”

  Stiles sank deeper into his chair, rocked back some, and rested his head on the worn neckrest. As the chair protested with a squawk, the hot chocolate finally drew him with its rich scent, and he scooped up the cup and blew across the milky warmth.

  Watching the steam rise, Travis smiled. “You’re a contented man, Eric.”

  “Oh, Travis…I lived for four years at the mercy of whim. Would they decide to beat me up? Would they feed us today? Would the Constrictor come? We had no control. After that, even a little control seems terrific to me. I love the day-to-day activities of being alive. Walking freely to and from my cabin, my friends around me, going all over space, meeting alien races, a new batch of trainees every few months…I meet all kinds of people and I talk to and like most of them. I kind of enjoy getting through things. People are a lot less prickly when you don’t return it.”

  “You sure don’t talk like a man who did the heroic deed and got awarded the Medal of Valor,” Travis observed. “What a dismal example for all those punks out there who’re shooting for the braids and brass, know that? They want glory.”

  “Not all it’s cracked up to be.” Stiles sipped his hot chocolate again and breathed into the steam. “I didn’t get the MV for any deeds. I got it for sitting on my bruised ass for four years and not dying quite fast enough.”

  Leaning sideways, Travis lounged on an elbow and huffed disapprovingly. “What’s Romulan for ‘crappola’?”

  “I think it’s ‘enushi.’ ‘Enushmi.’”

  “Figures you’d know.”

  Allowing himself a little smile, Stiles drew a deep breath and sighed also. “I washed my hands of Red Sector nine years ago, Travvy, when I was finally sure the message about Zevon had gotten all the way back to his family. It took me a year to get the message through, and another year to make sure there hadn’t been any snags and that his immediate family and the empress definitely knew he was there. He was sure they’d come get him. I made sure he got back home, and now I find out it might have been his death sentence.”

  “You acted above and beyond the call,” Travis tried to confirm, obviously relieved they’d broken through to the real reason he’d come in here. “It’s not even in the widest perimeter of imagination your fault, and you flipping well know it.”

  Stiles nodded. “In my three rational brain cells, I know it. But in the rest of them…he’s dying because I m
ade sure he got home.”

  “That’s nutty.”

  Taking a long draw on the hot chocolate, Stiles gazed with growing sentiment into the thick warm drink and saw in there all the wonders of freedom. The foam turned like ebb tide, the swirling dark cream like clouds and wind.

  “You ever been a prisoner of war?”

  His question moved softly between them as if made of music. Travis had no reason to supply an answer.

  Stiles watched the foam bubbles pop in his mug.

  “You live together in a way that no two other people ever do. You mop the other guy’s blood and bind his wounds, listen to his dreams and watch his hopes decay…you can’t get away from the smells, the sweat, the fears crawling on you like cancer…after a while you run out of words to hold each other’s brains inside, so you just stop talking. You start communicating without words. Just a look, or a touch…or you just sit there together. The intimacy can’t be described. You see each other so raw, so demolished…more than you ever wanted anybody to see you. Weak, sick, scared, sobbing…crushed by loneliness like a plague, till you finally turn to each other and pray the other guy’s lonely too.”

  He raised his eyes. Deeply moving to the point of sorrow was the expression on Travis’s face, a shivering guilt that threaded its way from the distant past and prevented forgetting.

  “I survived because of two forces moving in my life,” Stiles continued softly. “One was the ghost of Ambassador Spock in my mind, telling me I could survive, I could rise above all this, that he’d be proud of me if I did…I heard his voice every night for the whole four years, narrating the plan for how I would behave and what he expected of me. I don’t have any idea if it was all in my mind and I was making it up in some kind of hero-worship fantasy, but Travis, I swear to eternity it kept me alive. Just knowing what he expected of me and hearing his voice from the other side of the snow…calling me by my first name…he kept me alive by making me believe it was my duty and that I could prevail. The other force,” he added softly, “was Zevon. Whenever the ambassador’s image faded and that leash started to fray, Zevon would be there in the haze, some kind of echo of Spock, holding himself above the trouble we were in, always reminding me without even saying it that something bigger was expected of me. I needed him and he needed me, and together we worked for a common purpose. He gave me a reason to struggle out of my cot morning after morning. If I didn’t come, he came to get me and made me get up. If he’s out there somewhere, sick, maybe dying…I can’t let him face it without me.”

  Travis looked at him and a moment later sat bolt upright. “You mean—you don’t mean try to make another contact! The last one took you a year!”

  “Zevon might not have a year this time, Travis.”

  “Oh, my God! This is a little sudden—” Breathing in gulps, Travis glanced around the quarters as if looking for the writing on the wall. “My God…I’ll contact Starbase Fourteen…get another CST out here to cover the precinct…I’ll have to give them some kind of excuse.”

  The fact that Travis Perraton so quickly absorbed and didn’t question the moral imperative came to Stiles as a compliment, a vote of loyalty, and it bolted into place his flickering plan.

  “I’ll come up with something,” he said.

  Travis pressed his hands to his face, shook his head, then let his hands fall to his lap and sighed. “You and your causes. Just when I think you’re settling down, you come up with some lofty goal.”

  “I don’t have any lofty goals,” Stiles told him. “I’ve got my goal. Save Zevon if I can, and if I can’t, be with him when he dies. That’s my goal.”

  “What about averting an interstellar conflict? If we can make a solid contact in the royal family, somebody inclined to trust us the way Zevon and you trust each other, maybe Starfleet can help the Romulans with this poison thing they’ve got going.”

  “That’s not my problem. If it’s in the cards, great. We’re one ship with limited influence and we’re better off keeping a leash on our aspirations. If there’s a conflict, somebody else’ll handle it. If we’re there, we’ll help. We can only do so much in life. Things change. Then they change again. I’ve been a hero. Got what I thought I wanted, and it was nice, but how long can you keep that up? Once the handshaking and the medals are done with, the heroness just fades. You can’t strut around for the rest of your life being heroic. I can’t, anyway. I’m not James Kirk. The good thing is that I don’t want to be. I’m gonna do my part, not his part.”

  Travis leered at him with narrowed eyes. “That’s the most depressing nobility I’ve ever heard.”

  “Works, though. You prepared for the hard part?”

  “I’m always prepared, Eric.”

  “That’s it then. Ready about.”

  “Ready about, aye.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  NOW WHAT?

  The last living Romulan royal family member, the last chance at uncontaminated blood, was no longer living.

  Riker’s profound words tolled through the silence on the bridge.

  Spock was particularly aware of Dr. McCoy’s expression and longed to have a few private moments, but that would not come today. Decades ago, Leonard McCoy had lost his ability—or even desire—to hide his feelings. Now his bent shoulders further sagged, his wrinkled eyes crimped, his dry lips pursed, and he seemed to weaken. This news portended a grueling struggle for the physicians, with no possible short cuts. Spock knew McCoy had seen many failures in his long life, and together they had fielded many fears and changes, and yet somehow McCoy had never lost his hope to alter one more arrow of fate before the years finally caught up to him. Failure this time might mean failure in his last attempt to make the galaxy better.

  “Captain,” Mr. Worf interrupted, “another ship on long-range, sir.”

  Picard looked up at him. “The Tdal returning for some reason?”

  “No, sir. Starfleet encryption.”

  “Identify her as soon as you can, Mr. Worf.”

  “Sensors are reading the vessel now, sir,” the Klingon obliged. “Heavy keel…double hull…multipurpose configuration…It’s a tender, sir, combat support. The…Saskatoon.”

  Picard turned to the forward screen, but nothing was visible yet. “Signal recognition and render salute pennants as we pass.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Instantly shedding despair of Riker’s news, McCoy came to life and found the nimbleness in his ancient fingers to poke Spock in the arm. “A CST! Give you any ideas, Spock, ol’ man?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Double-hulled, industrial, strong enough to defend herself, but doesn’t attract much attention? Get it?”

  “Ah—” Spock felt his brows flare. Decades ago he may have been embarrassed, but such social pressures were long withered from disuse. “Yes…conveniently unprovoking, yet combat-ready…possibly, Doctor!”

  McCoy turned gingerly to Picard. “See if you can get ’em to stop! Pull ’em over on a traffic violation or something!”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Doctor,” the captain said as he watched the helm console from where he stood. “The CST is on an approach vector. They’re reducing speed.”

  “Captain,” Data reported, “Saskatoon is hailing us.”

  “Mr. Data, go ahead and give us ship to ship,” Picard ordered.

  “Aye, sir. Frequencies open.”

  “This is Captain Picard, Saskatoon. Do you have a problem?”

  “What a relief that we found you before you moved on! I’ve got to speak to Ambassador Spock.”

  Spock wondered if he had heard incorrectly, though he knew that was unlikely. He had been cautious to keep his whereabouts private. Who was this CST commander that he could pierce top security?

  Glancing at Spock, obviously surprised that anyone else knew, Picard sedately required, “Identify yourself, please.”

  “This is Lieutenant Commander Eric Stiles. Is Ambassador Spock there? It’s an emergency.”


  Chapter Fourteen

  COMMANDER STILES APPEARED in the turbolift within ten minutes of the first message, instantly flooding Spock with nostalgia for the young man he had once counseled, for today there appeared on the upper bridge another kind of young man altogether. His blond hair slightly darkened to an ashy shade, and the beard he had grown while in captivity was missing. His face had lengthened to a manful form, lacking the baby-fat of the twenty-one-year-old, and his hairline had changed. He looked like a wizened echo of the boy who had stormed the embassy.

  Hesitating only an instant, as if unsure whether to come down the starboard ramp or the port ramp, Eric Stiles virtually ran to the command deck.

  “Commander Stiles,” Captain Picard greeted. “It’s a pleasure.”

  Stiles said. “Sorry, Captain. I’m sorry to barge in….”

  Riker reached for Stiles’s hand and shook it. “I remember your return from captivity, Mr. Stiles. I was in the audience on board the Lexington. It’s a privilege to have a Medal of Valor winner visit us—”

  “Thanks.” Stiles turned instantly to Spock, and it was as if they had spoken only yesterday. “I’ve got a problem. And I think I can help you with yours. Can we talk alone?”

  How odd.

  Stiles’s eyes were filled with complexity. The years sheared away between them and once again Spock was speaking candidly with the frightened boy who so needed the lifeline of an experienced voice sounding around him. Yet there was more.

  Captain Picard gestured to the port side. “My ready room, Ambassador. Help yourselves.”

  “Manna from heaven,” McCoy uttered, staring. “Spock! A Romulan royal nowhere near any other Romulans! And you don’t believe in luck!”

  “Yes, I do,” Spock fluidly contradicted. “This is most startling. You remain certain that your cellmate was a member of the Romulan royal family?”