[Star Trek TNG] - Double Helix Omnibus Read online

  “It is…long.”

  She cocked her head quizzically. “I guess that’s a compliment.”

  He swallowed and felt too hot suddenly.

  “Wait until you see Commander Riker,” she went on with an even broader grin. “Archarian men wear beards…long, bushy beards. That’s something I’m really looking forward to seeing! He’s normally so stiff and formal all the time.”

  “Unh. Yes. But there is nothing wrong with formality.”

  “Almost as bad as you.”

  “Uh—”

  “That’s supposed to be a joke.” She grew more businesslike. “This isn’t a social call, is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Lieutenant…we have a situation on the planet’s smaller moon.” Taking refuge in duty, he began to fill her in on the details. “The captain wants me to lead an away team on a recon mission,” he concluded. “He thought it best for me to coordinate with you.”

  “I see.” She nodded somberly. “Worf, you and I both know you’re more than capable of dealing with this situation on your own. I’m going to leave it up to you. This is a good chance to impress the captain—don’t blow it.”

  “I have no intention of—blowing it.” He bristled at the very idea.

  “Sorry, sorry, poor choice of words.” She hesitated. “Let me suggest a team for you. Take Schultz, Detek, and Wrenn. They’ve been pulling a lot of extra duty shifts together since Farpoint, and they seem to work well as a team.”

  “I have already assigned them to this mission—as well as Ensign Clarke.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Angling for my job, Worf? I couldn’t have picked a better team.”

  Again he felt the heat rush to his face. “I—uh—”

  “Relax, they’re good choices. Go with my blessing. Bust some skulls. I know that’s what you really want to do.”

  He gave a curt nod. My people. Yes, I would like to meet more of my people…and bust some skulls! He felt his blood surge at the thought of combat.

  “Thank you—Tasha.”

  “Don’t mention it.” She grinned again. “We’re all in this together, right?”

  Dr. Crusher had her people carefully stationed at all corners of sickbay when Captain Picard strode in with all the subtlety of a hurricane. He did not look pleased at being summoned to sickbay.

  “What is so important, Doctor,” he said curtly. “We have a possible combat situation developing. My place is on the bridge right now.”

  “Just this.” She took his arm and led him to the virus display. She hadn’t changed the image since revealing the hidden message. “Look.”

  “Smile…you are dead?” He frowned. “What is this, Beverly? A joke?”

  “That’s exactly what I think it is.” She nodded at the display. “A private joke. That message is written on the bottom of every single virus. It’s been coded into the NXA protein strands.”

  He frowned. “Then it is artificial—”

  “Created from Rhulian flu, and almost certainly by a human.”

  “I don’t want to believe it. I—” He licked his lips. “I think—”

  It was the first time she had seen him this way in years. Since Jack died, she thought. Since that awful, awful day when my husband died.

  “We don’t know who did it. He didn’t sign his name. But I have a suspicion.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Dr. Tang, the head of Archo City Hospital. His specialty is virology, and to all indications he’s very, very good…cutting-edge good.”

  “Do you have evidence of this?”

  “No. It’s just a feeling I have from talking with him—a feeling that he’s doing his best to stonewall my research. I think he has some serious mental instabilities, and judging from his comments, he would fit right in with the Purity League. He wants the planet quarantined and left on its own permanently.”

  “These are very serious charges.”

  “I know. And I don’t have any proof yet.”

  He hesitated, staring at the virus, at the letters on its underside. “Does the technology necessary to create this virus exist anywhere else on Archaria III besides Dr. Tang’s hospital?”

  “I doubt it. You would need a state-of-the-art research lab…and advanced knowledge of human and nonhuman virology.”

  Slowly Picard nodded. “You may be right. It would certainly help explain why Tang hasn’t made any progress toward a cure.”

  Dr. Crusher nodded. He wants them dead. Why create a cure for your own plague?

  “I’ll alert Commander Riker to your suspicions—he may be able to turn up more information on Tang during his away mission.” He cleared his throat. “Who else knows about this message?”

  “So far, just the people here. I ordered them to keep it to themselves.”

  “Good. We don’t want a panic on the planet. Are you any closer to a cure?”

  “We’re just starting to unravel the NXA protein threads holding the virus together. There’s no telling what nasty little tricks our genetic programmer tucked into it.”

  Captain Picard gave a pensive nod. “Thank you, Doctor. You did the right thing. Keep me up to date on your progress.” He paused. “You can cure it, can’t you?”

  “I think so, eventually. It’s just a matter of time. Unfortunately, that’s the one thing we’re short of.”

  “Keep at it. Thousands are counting on you.” Turning, he headed for the door.

  As if we don’t have enough pressure already.

  After the doors whisked shut, Dr. Crusher took a deep breath. “All right,” she called to her people. “Gather around. We have a lot of work to do.”

  She started handing out assignments: NXA sequencing, tests with antiviral compounds, analyses of the protein strands within the virus.

  We will get to the bottom of this mess, she told herself. And it’s going to be sooner rather than later—Dr. Tang and his stonewalling be damned!

  Chapter Seven

  FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER his conversation with Tasha Yar, Worf met the four members of his away team in Transporter Room 3. Like them, he had changed into a full containment suit. The bulky white garment felt suffocating, but it covered him completely from head to heel. No virus would get through it. I might as well be in a full spacesuit, he thought.

  He felt an itch starting in the middle of his back and gave a growl of displeasure. Klingons are not meant for containment suits. And as he continued to breathe, his faceplate fogged over. What had his instructor at the Academy told him to do when that happened? Practice your breathing—keep it slow and steady. Hyperventilating caused it.

  He nudged the comm bar with his chin. A channel opened up to the other members of his away team.

  “Since we will be beaming into potentially hostile territory,” he said, letting a grim note creep into his voice, “you must be on your guard at all times. Watch your backs, no matter what you see or hear. And remember…” He paused for emphasis. “This is a good day to die!”

  That did it. The ensign swallowed noticeably.

  Worf gave a mental snort. Humans. It really was a good day to die. If you went into combat fearing nothing, you walked the path to glory.

  He had already selected their beam-in coordinates: an unoccupied dome on the far edge of the research station. La Forge’s last sensor scans had placed all the humans and Klingons a safe distance away, in the buildings nearer to the station’s landing pad, so their arrival should go unnoticed. His plan called for securing the dome, then using it as a base of operations as they made their way through the complex slowly and methodically, searching for victims. Their first priority would be reaching the man La Forge had spotted.

  “Take your positions for transport!” he barked.

  His team scrambled onto the transporter pad. They arranged themselves in a semicircle, leaving the middle pad open for him. He took it, turned, and faced the ensign on duty at the transporter controls.

  “Energize!” he said, loud enough to be heard even through his helm
et.

  As lights began to sparkle around him, the Enterprise disappeared…and was replaced by a dimly lit room perhaps twenty meters high and forty meters across. The white ceiling arched overhead in a huge dome.

  Artificial gravity was on; it felt just under Earth normal to Worf. He dropped to a crouch, phaser rifle up and ready. Scans might show a room empty…but shields had been known to hide ambushes, and he never took unnecessary chances.

  There was no ambush this time. Around him lay jumbles of boxes, huge wooden packing crates, and discarded machinery. The crates rose in teetering stacks; some of them nearly reached the ceiling.

  No danger. Or nothing that leaped out with fangs bared and claws ready, he thought. Diseases were far more insidious than that.

  “Guard duty.” He motioned Schultz to the rear hatch and Clarke to the front. “Secure the dome,” he said. “Shout if anyone tries to get in. Do not shoot unless fired upon or I give the word.”

  “Yes, sir!” They hurried to take up their positions. Only then did Worf relax enough to take his finger off his own phaser’s firing button.

  Wrenn had his tricorder out. Turning slowly, the ensign scanned the dome.

  “No other life forms within thirty meters,” he reported over the open channel. “The nearest life signs are from two humans located exactly thirty-two meters due north—that way.” He pointed toward the front of the dome, just to the right of Clarke’s position.

  “Are they moving?” Worf asked.

  “No, sir. From their life signs, I think they’re either asleep or unconscious.”

  Or dying from the plague, Worf thought. He sucked in a deep breath. Do not hyperventilate.

  “Keep monitoring them,” he said. “Let me know if their status changes. And keep watch for anyone else moving in our direction.”

  Perhaps this would be easier than he had first thought. If everyone was sick, they would not offer resistance to the rescue mission. The Klingons here would not be affected by the plague, he reminded himself. Nor would any full-blooded humans.

  First, he had to address the problem at hand: securing this dome. Frowning a little, he regarded the stacks of boxes and crates all around him. Clearly the people in charge of this base had used this chamber as their storage area…or their dump. The crates bore labels like “Thermoentogram Modulator B-6” and “Dioxymosis Converter (F),” whatever those were. To the left, a few of the boxes made more sense: “Vegetable Concentrate 64” and “2400 Citric Protein Bars” sounded almost sensible in comparison, if not exactly appetizing. Sometimes he thought humans would eat anything, if it came in an attractive package.

  First things first, though. The jumble of crates might conceal anything from a cloaked Romulan death squad to a the lost treasures of Fret’vok. If they planned on using this dome as a base of operations, they were going to have to search it fully—you couldn’t cover your back if you didn’t know what was behind you.

  “Look behind the boxes on that side of the room,” he told Detek and Wrenn. “If you see anything unusual, let me know immediately. Do not investigate yourselves.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Turning with a sigh, Worf squeezed between a pair of tall “Emulsion Generator” crates. His containment suit snagged for a second on a nail, but since the material couldn’t be punctured by anything as soft as mere steel, he pulled sharply and felt himself snap free.

  Whoever had packed all this junk into the dome had left less-than-adequate access corridors between the piles of crates. He edged down the nearest one and felt himself treading on things that crunched underfoot.

  His phaser rifle had a small but powerful light mounted on top; he flicked it on, then swept the beam up and down the floor. Loose cables, discarded circuit relays, food wrappers, and other trash littered the floor here. From the thick layer of dust on everything, he knew no one had been back here in many years.

  He had just turned to go back when Wrenn’s excited voice squealed his name: “Lieutenant Worf!”

  “What is it?” he demanded. Had the Klingons from the freighter detected them and launched an attack?

  “Sir!” he heard Wrenn call. “We found something! Blood—and according to my tricorder, it’s human!”

  “Hold your position. I will be right there.”

  Somehow he managed to squeeze back out into the center of the dome without tumbling any of the piles of crates. He spotted Wrenn about halfway to the front door and sprinted over to join him.

  The ensign pointed to dark stains on the floor. “According to my tricorder, that’s human blood,” he said. “It’s dry, but fresh—about twelve hours old!”

  Worf bent to examine the blood spatters. A trail of blood wound off between crates on that side of the dome. He hesitated, trying to decide how best to handle it.

  “Is it fully human?” he finally asked. “Or is it a human-Peladian mix?”One of the symptoms of the disease is uncontrollable bleeding, he reminded himself.

  Wrenn had to check. “Uh…fully human, sir. Not a trace of Peladian genetic material.”

  So we have the trail of a wounded human. Hefting his phaser rifle, Worf eased between crates of “Endochronic Thiotimoline Pumps” and “Phase Resonance Detectors.” His heart began to pound with growing excitement. Shining his light at the floor, he studied the footprints and the blood. The drips became noticeably larger, and bloody handprints smeared the crates to either side where someone had rested or leaned to steady himself.

  When the passageway opened up a little, he spotted at least three—and possibly as many as five—different sets of footprints that had disturbed the decades’ worth of accumulated dust…whoever had come through here made no effort to conceal the trail. They could not all be dead or dying, Worf thought with growing unease. His eyes narrowed. What happened here?

  He continued to follow the trail, winding between the crates and boxes. At last he reached the far wall.

  The trail ended with a pool of sticky, half-congealed blood. And lying in that blood he found the bodies of six adult human males. Acharian settlers, he decided, noting their chest-length beards. He remembered what Tasha Yar had told him about the men on Archaria III all wearing long, bushy beards.

  These six had been stabbed and cut repeatedly. The blood came from their wounds. But they had not died here—someone had carefully arranged the bodies. Eyes closed, hands neatly folded across their chests, they looked almost peaceful now. The trail he had followed must have been left by a burial party, he decided.

  Better to die in honorable combat than to succumb to a disease, he thought with a nod. Unless they had been murdered….

  He moved closer and began to study the bodies with the dispassionate attention of a born predator. Death had been sudden, but not unexpected, he decided. He pulled their shredded tunics open to study their wounds. Two had numerous stab wounds.

  Those cuts—

  He leaned forward, studying the long, clean sweep of the death blows. A strong arm had delivered those cuts. The wounds looked exactly like the marks left by a mek’leth. Or in this case, several mek’leths.

  Only Klingons used that particular type of short sword, he knew, with its razor-sharp edge and deadly point—perfect for slashing and thrusting. He liked to use one himself. Unlike disruptors, it made combat a personal experience…but it also made for messy corpses. Exactly like these.

  Lights wavered behind him as the ensigns followed. Over the open comm channel he heard gasps of shock from Wrenn and Detek.

  “Control yourself,” he snarled. “You must have seen death before.”

  “Not like this,” Wrenn gasped.

  “All that blood,” Detek said.

  “What’s going on?” Clarke demanded from his post by the front hatch. “Do you need assistance? Lieutenant? Anybody?”

  “Quiet on the channel.” Worf rose and pivoted on the balls of his feet, furious with the breaches in protocol. This is going in their personal files, he vowed. Simpering over a little blood!

&
nbsp; He found Wrenn, pale-faced, two meters away, just standing there and staring open-mouthed at the bodies.

  “Back to the center of the dome!” he said.

  The ensign began to stammer in shock or fear.

  “Go on!” Worf grimaced with distaste. No stomach for a little blood! He switched off his rifle’s light, hiding the gruesome details. Perhaps that would help. They are only humans, he reminded himself. They cannot help their weaknesses. Still, he had expected more from them. After all, he was leading this mission.

  “Go back to the center of the dome,” he ordered a little more gently. “Wait there and keep it clear in case we have to return.”

  Worf clicked his comm bar back to the first setting so that he could talk to the “survivors” of his mission.

  “Detek,” he said, voice a low growl.

  “Sir!” The ensign’s voice quavered noticeably.

  “Get the tricorder and medical supplies. You are now our rear guard.”

  Turning, he headed for the front hatch without a backward glance. The other three will pull together and pick up the slack, he thought. He hoped.

  Chapter Eight

  DR. CRUSHER PASSED OUT ASSIGNMENTS, and as her people scrambled to work on unraveling the secrets of the virus, she took a minute to page Dr. Tang at Archo City Hospital. This should prove interesting, she thought. Let’s see how he reacts to news of that hidden message. Maybe it would force his hand…or surprise him into an admission of guilt.

  Tang finally answered the page. “What is it?” he growled. Still practicing Dracula’s bedside manner, I see, Dr. Crusher thought. Only this time I know your real motive.

  She said: “Dr. Tang, I have isolated the virus and done a complete TXA breakdown. In the process, I found something quite disturbing—not only is the virus man-made, but its designer left a message.”