[Star Trek TNG] - Double Helix Omnibus

  He coughed a bit and fought a half-second of panic. But the General wouldn’t have infected him. He’s not done with me yet. Phase Two has just begun. He still needs my reports.

  The aircar circled down toward the roof of a giant building complex: the Archo City Library. Its roof held parking spaces for hundreds of vehicles. Now, however, it lay completely deserted.

  “This is your destination, sir,” the aircar told him. It began landing procedures, flashing bright yellow lights and sounding an insistent beep to alert anyone who might be directly underneath them. “Will you be staying here long, sir? If so, I can power down and recharge my energy cells.”

  “No, not long.” He leaned to the side and studied the hundreds of empty parking spaces on the library’s roof. It must be closed for the emergency, he thought. It was probably just as well. He didn’t want anyone to see him checking his monitoring stations. Though that was hardly an illegal activity, he never liked explaining himself to strangers…or peace officers.

  His aircar landed beside the lift.

  “Thank you for using Teague Luxury Aircars, the best on the planet. Please enjoy your stay.”

  “I’ll be back in just a second,” he said. “Keep the engines fully powered up.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Solomon popped open the side door, hopped out, and hurried to the lift. It looked like a small square building with double doors. The doors didn’t open for him this time as he approached, not that it mattered—he had no intentions of going inside.

  He went around to the back of the structure. A week ago he had installed an atmospheric monitoring station here. It was a small innocuous-looking silver box about the size of a small loaf of bread. Vents on all three exposed sides allowed air to pass through freely.

  Pulling a small tricorder from his pocket, he snapped it into a data port on the front of the station. A red light turned green as the tricorder downloaded all the data.

  Easy enough. Tucking the tricorder back into his pocket, he jogged back to the Praxx aircar. One down, forty-nine more to go, he thought. He would be lucky to finish by midnight.

  He didn’t know what atmospheric conditions the General’s scientists needed to monitor, but then he didn’t need to. As long as they get their data and I get my pay, we’ll all be happy.

  As he slid back into the pilot’s seat, the computer said, “Thank you for using Teague Luxury Aircars, the best on Archaria III!”

  Solomon rolled his eyes. Forty-nine more monitoring stations…that message is going to get very annoying, he thought.

  “What is your next destination, sir?”

  “225 Altair Place, Convent Gardens.” He had a monitoring station set up amid the tangle of purple rosebushes along the Rose Walk.

  Chapter Eleven

  DUSK FALLS BELOW. The magic hour is here.

  In his cabin, Commander Riker stroked his long black beard and stared at himself in the mirror. He had never worn a beard before, and he had to admit he rather liked the effect. The follicle stimulator had given him a bushy growth in the style of a native Archarian. When he shrugged on a loose-fitting brown shirt and laced it up the front, then brown pants and soft brown boots, he barely recognized himself.

  “Well, let’s get going,” he told himself.

  He strode to the door and out into the corridor. Several crewmen did a double-take. Grinning, he nodded to them and said, “Carry on!”

  “Sir.” Data’s voice came from behind, and Riker paused long enough for the android to catch up. Data too wore loose brown clothing and sported a thick brown beard. Flesh-colored makeup hid the metallic gold of his face and hands; only his slitted yellow eyes still marked him as other than human.

  “Your eyes—”

  “I have inserts to change their color and appearance, sir. However, since they impair my vision by 1.0037 percent, I have elected not to wear them until we actually beam down to the planet.”

  Riker nodded. “Other than that, you look good, Data. Truly human…and ready to rebel.”

  “Thank you, sir. You also look substantially different.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “That is how I intended it, sir.”

  They reached the turbolift, which hissed open promptly. Deanna Troi stood inside. She stared at them, then broke out in giggles. That better not be the reaction we get on the planet, Riker thought. He stepped inside, folded his arms, and gave her a long stare. Oddly, her giggles grew louder, but at least this time she tried to stifle them a bit.

  “Transporter Room Three,” he said.

  “Bill—” Deanna gasped. “You should see yourself!”

  “I rather liked the effect.” He stroked his beard and struck a new and even more heroic pose, one arm curled up and back with the first against his forehead. “I am a true planetary pioneer!”

  “Sir,” said Data, “very few human space pioneers actually wore beards. A comprehensive analysis starting with John Glenn in the mid-twentieth century shows—”

  “Uh, that’s not really what I meant, Data,” said Riker.

  “I’ll leave you two to sort it out,” Deanna said as the turbolift came to a stop. The doors shushed open and she stepped into the corridor, probably heading toward sickbay, Riker thought. She added over her shoulder, “Don’t get too carried away, Bill.”

  “Thanks, Deanna—I think!” Riker called after her.

  “May I ask you a question, sir?” Data said as the turbolift resumed its ascent.

  “Certainly.”

  “Why does Counselor Troi call you ‘Bill’ when the rest of your fellow officers call you ‘Will’?”

  “I’ve known Deanna quite a bit longer than anyone else aboard. I used to go by Bill at the Academy—but then I dated a woman named Bili Beller, so we mutually decided I’d use Will.” That conjured up images of her in his mind—tall and slender Bili, with her sea-green eyes, full pouting lips, and high cheekbones. He sighed and wondered what had happened to her.

  He found Data staring inquiringly at him, so he cleared his throat and added, “Bill Riker and Bili Beller doesn’t have the proper sound for a couple, so I went by Will. After we went our separate ways, I decided I liked Will better.”

  “The difference between two consonants seems inconsequential. Surely the measure of a man is determined by his actions, not his designation.”

  “Yes—and no. In some situations, the right name can make all the difference.”

  “And Will Riker is preferable to Bill Riker?”

  “Or Billy-the-Kid Riker, a nickname I was also unfortunate enough to get stuck with at the Academy. So I had another reason to change it besides my girlfriend Bili.”

  Slowly Data nodded. “I believe I do see, sir. It is the difference between a shark and spark. Or a joke and a poke. Or a rose and a nose. Or—”

  “Yes, exactly, Data.”

  “Is there a reason why you have not yet told Counselor Troi your new preference?”

  “I, ah, haven’t had a chance.”How do you tactfully explain the awkwardness of working with an old lover to an android?

  They reached the transporter room. As the doors slid open, Riker was pleased to find Lieutenant Yar already present. She, too, wore brown pants and shirt, but with a hooded cape slung almost casually across her shoulders. And like him, she had used a follicle stimulator; her suddenly long blond hair had been pulled back into a severe bun that accentuated the sharp lines of her jaw, cheekbones, and nose. She also wore no makeup…plain as a churchmouse, wasn’t that the old saying? It fit this throwback racist zealot planet.

  Yar turned to face him with a noticeable stiffening of her spine. A month on board together and she hasn’t relaxed once in my presence, Riker thought. He had never seen anyone wound up so tight. With the probable exception of Data. And with him it really is clockwork that’s wound so tight.

  “Sir,” Yar said. “I have your weapon. And Data’s.” She held out her left hand, revealing two small, gray, egg-shaped phas
ers of a design fit for civilians.

  Riker and Data each accepted one. Riker turned his over, noting all the standard controls—pushbutton trigger, safety switch, and three degree settings—low, medium, and high. They would correspond to light stun, heavy stun, and kill, he knew. The lightly indented grips felt slightly different from standard Federation issue, as he wrapped his fingers around them…oddly soft and yielding, but still comfortable. He knew he could use the weapon with no difficulty.

  The first rule of any away mission—drummed into every student at Starfleet Academy from day one—was to check your equipment personally. The phaser control had been set on light stun. When he tried to thumb it over to a higher setting, the switch jumped back. He thumbed it again with the same result.

  “It’s defective, Lieutenant,” he said, offering it to her.

  “No, sir,” she said. “It’s not unusual for civilians to bear arms on Archaria III, but local laws stipulate that any setting higher than ‘light stun’ must be permanently disabled on any weapon in civilian hands.”

  Riker nodded. “Have you selected a beamdown site?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s a small alley near Archo City Hospital. Civilian news broadcasts show an antimixer rally taking place there. It should start with speeches, chants, and the consumption of a lot of free alcoholic beverages. After that, it’s anyone’s guess—previous rallies have ended in everything from riots to lynch mobs chasing down mixers. Of course, a few have also ended peacefully.” She grinned and he saw a little bit of a mischievous gleam in her eye. It was good to see her loosen up. “But that’s not very likely tonight, from what I hear. Father Veritas wants Archo City Hospital destroyed, so I think we can pretty much count on some action.”

  Riker gave a nod. “Let’s get moving,” he said. He led the way onto the transporter platform, and Data and Yar took their positions to either side.

  “Just a second, sir.” Yar pulled up her hood and fastened a small silver chain under her chin. With her face suddenly hidden in shadow, only the faint glint of her icy blue eyes seemed alive. “It’s traditional for Archarian woman to wear hoods in public,” she said as if in reply to his scrutiny.

  Data bent at the waist and pressed something to his face. When he rose, eyes as blue as Tasha Yar’s met Riker’s own. Riker blinked in sudden amazement. He would never have been able to pick Data out of a crowd of strangers. Not a single trace of the android’s usual appearance remained.

  “You would fool even your own mother, Data,” he said in surprise. He gave a nod to Ensign Norman. “Energize!”

  “Actually, sir,” Data began, “I have no mother. Nevertheless, I view Dr. Soo—”

  The transporter room shimmered, disappeared, and suddenly Riker found himself standing in a dark alley. The stench of decaying vegetation, raw sewage, old smoke, and several other even less savory smells hit him like a blow. Gagging, he steadied himself against a red-brick wall. Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness.

  What little light spilled in from the streetlights in the street at the other end of the alley revealed nothing more than the vague outlines of abandoned crates and garbage bins around him. Every now and then humans passed the alley’s mouth without so much as a glance in their direction, their silhouettes giving little clue about who they were and what they were up to. Probably too busy hurrying away from the alley’s stench, Riker thought wryly.

  “Yar, take point,” he said.

  “On it, sir.” She glided up the alley as furtively as a shadow. If she hadn’t been silhouetted against the light, he never would have seen her.

  Riker started after her, but slipped on something slick and skated forward, off balance. Strong hands seized his shoulders and steadied him.

  It was Data. “Careful, sir,” the android said. “The ground offers little traction here.”

  “Thanks, Data.”

  “Actually, sir, given your thoughts on the matter, I have been reconsidering my name. It conveys a sense of information rather than purpose. It is also not a name commonly associated with Archarians.”

  “Or humans.”

  “Precisely. Which is why I thought taking the name Bret might be a better choice—at least for the duration of this mission.”

  “Bret?” Riker shook his head a little. “How did you pick that one—no, never mind. I’m sure it’s a well-researched and thought-out selection.”

  Data tilted his head slightly. “Thank you, sir.”

  “And you had better call me Will from now on, too. First names for everyone, like we’re old friends out for fun at the Purity League rally.”

  “Acknowledged—Will.”

  Tasha Yar had reached the mouth of the alley. She paused and looked back, motioning them forward. Riker hurried to join her, with Data at his heels.

  “Sir,” she said softly, “there are peace officers posted at the both intersections to our left and right. I don’t think we can get out without being seen.”

  Riker peeked out and spotted the two uniformed officers. Both stood beneath spotlights, looking conspicuous. Probably what they want…an obvious authority presence to deter rioters and looters. The planet wasn’t under martial law yet, but the government had to be getting close to station peace officers so blatantly.

  Yar went on, “There is still some pedestrian traffic—I spotted a couple of people who looked like they might be factory workers hurrying home. The peace officers didn’t even glance at them.”

  Riker said, “I don’t think we’ll have any trouble getting past them as long as we act like we belong here. Follow my lead. We’ll bluff it through.”

  He took a deep breath and stepped out into the street with a little bit of a swagger, like he owned Archo City. With his beard and native garb, he knew he more than looked the part. To any casual observer, he was an Archarian.

  Without hesitation Data and Yar joined him and matched his pace. Just three friends out for an evening’s fun at the Purity League rally, Riker thought as they headed up the broad sidewalk. We belong here. No need to question us.

  Yar said, “If my directions are correct, we need to turn right at the next intersection. Archo City Hospital is only a few blocks away.”

  “Excellent,” Riker said. More loudly, he went on, “I think our harvest will be up ten percent this quarter.”

  “What harvest, Will?” Data said, sounding bewildered.

  “Act like you belong here, Data!” Yar whispered fiercely at him. “Talk about farm stuff as we walk past the peace officers! Something innocuous!”

  Data nodded woodenly, and suddenly he plastered a fake grin across his face. “Very well, Tasha,” he said. “Since we are up to nothing more than business as usual, this seems like the perfect opportunity for me to practice humorous banter.”

  “Lucky for us it’s dark!” Riker muttered half to himself. Data stood out like a Cardassian in Starfleet Headquarters when he tried too hard to be human.

  “Will?” Data paused a millisecond, then went on, “So the farmer’s daughter said to the traveling salesman—”

  “Sorry, Bret, I’ve heard that one,” Riker said.

  “Bret?” Yar asked. “Did I miss something, sir?”

  Riker sighed. “Long story, Tasha. In the alley, Bret here persuaded me that we should only use first names for the duration of the mission. Bret blends in better than Data. Proceed with your banter, Bret.”

  “Thank you, Will.” Data paused a millisecond. “How about the one—”

  “Heard it,” Tasha said flatly.

  Data frowned. “But how can you say you have heard it if I have not yet had a chance to relate the humorous part of the story?”

  “I’ll explain later,” Riker told him.

  They neared the intersection. Like all the other men on this planet, the peace officer waiting there wore his beard at chest length. He straightened a bit, looked them up and down, then started toward them at an amble.

  Riker felt a jolt of panic and tried not to show it. He’s suspiciou
s. What have we done wrong?

  His thoughts raced through the possibilities, and he studied his team from the corner of his eyes, but both Data and Tasha Yar looked the part of natives. Feigning indifference, they kept strolling toward the corner. To all appearances they were three Archarians out for a walk. So why is he heading our way?

  “Hey!” the peace officer called. “Hold up there. Wait a second!”

  Riker stopped and turned reluctantly to face him. The man wore a black one-piece uniform with bulging pockets at the hips, thighs, and chest. In one hand he carried an old-fashioned billy club; clipped to his belt were a phaser, an old-fashioned communicator, and several other objects which Riker could not readily identify.

  “Yes, officer?” Riker called. He felt a rush of adrenaline. Fight or flight, he thought, but he shoved those instincts to the back of his mind. They hadn’t done anything wrong; they had no reason to be concerned.

  “Do you want me to stun him, sir—Will?” Yar subvocalized. Casually she eased one hand toward her concealed phaser. “If we can get him into the alley before the other officer notices—”

  “Let’s see what he wants first,” Riker replied. “Maybe we can talk our way through it. Volunteer no information.”

  “Yes, sir. Will.”

  Reaching them, the peace officer drew to a halt and said, “Father Veritas be with you, friends.”

  Was he a member of the Purity League? Or an overly diligent officer trying to trap them into a confession? Better to play it cautiously, Riker thought. Father Veritas hasn’t done anything illegal here. At least, not that we know of. There’s no reason not to respond in kind.

  “And with you,” Riker said. “Are you a member?”

  “Of course I belong. Don’t let the uniform fool you.” He stuck out his hand. “Kirk Jordan.”